LITTLE   CLASSICS 

EDITED  BY 

EOSSITER  JOHNSON 


STORIES  OF 
INTELLECT 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

ttM  Cambridge 
1914 


COPYRIGHT,  1874,  BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  ft  CO. 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


CONTENTS. 

PACT 
THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN    .    s.  Bulwer  lytton    .    .      7 

D'OUTRE  MOET Harriet  Prescott  Spofford     60 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF 

USHER Edgar  Allan  Po«      . 


91 


CHOPS  THE  DWARF Charles  Lickent  .      .      .118 

WAKEFIELD Nathaniel  Hawthorne     .  134 


MURDER,  CONSIDERED  AS  ONE  OF 

THE  FINE  ARTS     ....     Thomas  De  Quincey 


147 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY      .     .      .     Rebecca  Harding  Davit   .  187 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BEAIN. 


BY  E.  BTTLWER  LYTTON. 

FRIEND  of  mine,  who  is  a  man  of  letters  and 
a  philosopher,  said  to  me  one  day,  as  if  between 
jest  and  earnest,  "  Fancy !  since  we  last  met 
I  have  discovered  a  haunted  house  in  the  midst  of  Lon- 
don." 

"  Really  haunted  ?  and  by  what,  —  ghosts  P  " 

"  Well,  I  can't  answer  these  questions ;  all  I  know 
is  this :  six  weeks  ago  I  and  my  wife  were  in  search  of 
a  furnished  apartment.  Passing  a  quiet  street,  we  saw 
on  the  window  of  one  of  the  houses  a  bill,  '  Apartments 
Furnished.'  The  situation  suited  us;  we  entered  the 
house,  liked  the  rooms,  engaged  them  by  the  week,  and 
left  them  the  third  day.  No  power  on  earth  could  have 
reconciled  my  wife  to  stay  longer ;  and  I  don't  wonder 
at  it." 

"What  did  you  see?" 

"Excuse  me;  I  have  no  desire  to  be  ridiculed  as  a 
superstitious  dreamer,  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  could  I 
ask  you  to  accept  on  my  affirmation  what  you  would 


8  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

hold  to  be  incredible,  without  the  evidence  of  your  own 
senses.  Let  me  only  say  this:  it  was  not  so  much 
what  we  saw  or  heard  (in  which  you  might  fairly  sup- 
pose that  we  were  the  dupes  of  our  own  excited  fancy, 
or  the  victims  of  imposture  in  others)  that  drove  us 
away,  as  it  was  an  undefinable  terror  which  seized  both 
of  us  whenever  we  passed  by  the  door  of  a  certain  un- 
furnished room,  in  which  we  neither  saw  nor  heard  any- 
thing ;  and  the  strangest  marvel  of  all  was,  that  for  once 
in  my  life  I  agreed  with  my  wife,  silly  woman  though 
she  be,  and  allowed  after  the  third  night  that  it  was 
impossible  to  stay  a  fourth  in  that  house.  Accordingly, 
on  the  fourth  morning  I  summoned  the  woman  who 
kept  tke  house  and  attended  on  us,  and  told  her  that 
the  rooms  did  not  quite  suit  us,  and  we  would  not  stay 
out  our  week.  She  said  dryly,  '  I  know  why ;  you  have 
stayed  longer  than  any  other  lodger.  Few  ever  stayed  a 
second  night;  none  before  you  a  third.  But  I  take  it 
they  have  been  very  kind  to  you.' 

" '  They,  —  who  ? '  I  asked,  affecting  a  smile. 

"'Why,  they  who  haunt  the  house,  whoever  they 
are ;  I  don't  mind  them  ;  I  remember  them  many  years 
ago,  when  I  lived  in  this  house  not  as  a  servant ;  but 
I  know  they  will  be  the  death  of  me  some  day.  I  don't 
care,  —  I  'm  old  and  must  die  soon  anyhow ;  and  then 
I  shall  be  with  them,  and  in  this  house  still.'  The 
woman  spoke  with  so  dreary  a  calmness,  that  really  it 
was  a  sort  of  awe  that  prevented  my  conversing  with 
her  further.  I  paid  for  my  week,  and  too  happy  were 
I  and  my  wife  to  get  off  so  cheaply." 

"  You  excite  my  curiosity,"  said  I ;  "  nothing  I  should 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN.        9 

like  better  than  to  sleep  in  a  haunted  house.  Pray  give 
me  the  address  of  the  one  which  you  left  so  ignomini- 
ously." 

My  friend  gave  me  the  address ;  and  when  we  parted 
I  walked  straight  toward  the  house  thus  indicated. 

It  is  situated  on  the  north  side  of  Oxford  Street,  in  a 
dull  but  respectable  thoroughfare.  I  found  the  house 
shut  up ;  no  bill  at  the  window,  and  no  response  to  my 
knock.  As  I  was  turning  away,  a  beer-boy,  collecting 
pewter  pots  at  the  neighboring  areas,  said  to  me,  "  Do 
you  want  any  one  at  that  house,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  heard  it  was  to  be  let." 

"  Let !  Why,  the  woman  who  kept  it  is  dead ;  has 
been  dead  these  three  weeks ;  and  no  one  can  be  found 

to  stay  there,  though  Mr.  J offered  ever  so  much. 

He  offered  mother,  who  chars  for  him,  £  1  a  week  just 
to  open  and  shut  the  windows,  and  she  would  not." 

"Would  not!  and  why?" 

"  The  house  is  haunted ;  and  the  old  woman  who  kept 
it  was  found  dead  in  her  bed  with  her  eyes  wide  open. 
They  say  the  Devil  strangled  her." 

"  Pooh !  You  speak  of  Mr.  J .  Is  he  the  owner 

of  the  house?" 

"  Yes." 

"Where  does  he  live?" 

"InG Street,  No. —." 

"  What  is  he  ?  —  in  any  business  ?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  nothing  particular ;  a  single  gentleman." 

I  gave  the  pot-boy  the  gratuity  earned  by  his  liberal 

information,  and  proceeded  to  Mr.  J in  G 

Street,  which  was  close  by  the  street  that  boasted  the 
1* 


10  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

haunted  house.    I  was  lucky  enough  to  find  Mr.  J 

at  home;  an  elderly  man  with  intelligent  countenance 
and  prepossessing  manners. 

I  communicated  my  name  and  my  business  frankly. 
I  said  I  heard  the  house  was  considered  to  be  haunted ; 
that  I  had  a  strong  desire  to  examine  a  house  with 
so  equivocal  a  reputation;  that  I  should  be  greatly 
obliged  if  he  would  allow  me  to  hire  it,  though  only  for 
a  night.  I  was  willing  to  pay  for  that  privilege  what- 
ever he  might  be  inclined  to  ask.  "  Sir,"  said  Mr.  J 

with  great  courtesy,  "the  house  is  at  your  service  for 
as  short  or  as  long  a  time  as  you  please.  Rent  is  out 
of  the  question ;  the  obligation  will  be  on  my  side,  should 
you  be  able  to  discover  the  cause  of  the  strange  phe- 
nomena which  at  present  deprive  it  of  all  value.  I 
cannot  let  it,  for  I  cannot  even  get  a  servant  to  keep 
it  in  order  or  answer  the  door.  Unluckily,  the  house  is 
haunted,  if  I  may  use  that  expression,  not  only  by  night 
but  by  day;  though  at  night  the  disturbances  are  of  a 
more  unpleasant  and  sometimes  of  a  more  alarming 
character.  The  poor  old  woman  who  died  in  it  three 
weeks  ago  was  a  pauper  whom  I  took  out  of  a  work- 
house ;  for  in  her  childhood  she  had  been  known  to  some 
of  my  family,  and  had  once  been  in  such  good  circum- 
stances that  she  had  rented  that  house  of  my  uncle. 
She  was  a  woman  of  superior  education  and  strong 
»iind,  and  was  the  only  person  I  could  ever  induce  to 
remain  in  the  house.  Indeed,  since  her  death,  which 
was  sudden,  and  the  coroner's  inquest,  which  gave  it 
a  notoriety  in  the  neighborhood,  I  have  so  despaired  of 
finding  any  person  to  take  charge  of  it,  much  more  a 


THE    HOUSE    AND   THE    BRAIN,  11 

tenant,  that  I  would  willingly  let  it  rent  free  for  a  year 
to  any  one  who  would  pay  its  rates  and  taxes." 

"How  long  ago  did  the  house  acquire  this  character?" 
"  That  I  can  scarcely  tell  you,  but  many  years  since ; 
the  old  woman  I  spoke  of  said  it  was  haunted  when  she 
rented  it,  between  thirty  and  forty  years  ago.  The  fact 
is,  that  my  life  has  been  spent  in  the  East  Indies,  and  in 
the  civil  service  of  the  company.  I  returned  to  England 
last  year,  on  inheriting  the  fortune  of  an  uncle,  amongst 
whose  possessions  was  the  house  in  question.  I  found 
it  shut  up  and  uninhabited.  I  was  told  that  it  was 
haunted,  and  no  one  would  inhabit  it.  I  smiled  at  what 
seemed  to  me  so  idle  a  story.  I  spent  some  money  in 
repainting  and  roofing  it,  added  to  its  old-fashioned  fur- 
niture a  few  modern  articles,  advertised  it,  and  obtained  a 
lodger  for  a  year.  He  was  a  colonel  retired  on  half  pay. 
He  came  in  with  his  family,  a  son  and  a  daughter,  and 
four  or  five  servants ;  they  all  left  the  house  the  next  day : 
and  although  they  deponed  that  they  had  all  seen  some- 
thing different,  that  something  was  equally  terrible  to  all. 
I  really  could  not  in  conscience  sue,  or  even  blame,  the 
colonel  for  breach  of  agreement.  Then  I  put  in  the  old 
woman  I  have  spoken  of,  and  she  was  empowered  to  let 
the  house  in  apartments.  I  never  had  one  lodger  who 
stayed  more  than  three  days.  I  do  not  tell  you  their 
stories ;  to  no  two  lodgers  have  exactly  the  same  phenom- 
ena been  repeated.  It  is  better  that  you  should  judge 
for  yourself,  than  enter  the  house  with  an  imagination 
influenced  by  previous  narratives;  only  be  prepared  to 
see  and  to  hear  something  or  other,  and  take  whatever 
precautions  you  yourself  please." 


12  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  Have  you  never  had  a  curiosity  yourself  to  pass  a 
night  in  that  house  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  passed,  not  a  night,  but  three  hours  in  broad 
daylight  alone  in  that  house.  My  curiosity  is  not  satis- 
fied, but  it  is  quenched.  I  have  no  desire  to  renew  the 
experiment.  You  cannot  complain,  you  see,  sir,  that  I 
am  not  sufficiently  candid ;  and  unless  your  interest  be 
exceedingly  eager  and  your  nerves  unusually  strong,  I 
honestly  add  that  I  advise  you  not  to  pass  a  night  in  that 
house." 

"  My  interest  is  exceedingly  keen,"  said  I ;  "  and  though 
only  a  coward  will  boast  of  his  nerves  in  situations  wholly 
unfamiliar  to  him,  yet  my  nerves  have  been  seasoned  in 
such  variety  of  danger  that  I  have  the  right  to  rely  on 
them,  even  in  a  haunted  house." 

Mr.  J said  very  little  more ;  he  took  the  keys  of 

the  house  out  of  his  bureau,  and  gave  them  to  me ;  and, 
thanking  him  cordially  for  his  frankness  and  his  urbane 
concession  to  my  wish,  I  carried  off  my  prize. 

Impatient  for  the  experiment,  as  soon  as  I  reached 
home  I  summoned  my  confidential  servant,  —  a  young 
man  of  gay  spirits,  fearless  temper,  and  as  free  from 
superstitious  prejudice  as  any  one  I  could  think  of. 

"F ,"  said  I,  "you  remember  in  Germany  how 

disappointed  we  were  at  not  finding  a  ghost  in  that  old 
castle,  which  was  said  to  be  haunted  by  a  headless  ap- 
parition? Well,  I  have  heard  of  a  house  in  London 
which,  I  have  reason  to  hope,  is  decidedly  haunted.  I 
mean  to  sleep  there  to-night.  Prom  what  I  hear,  there 
is  no  doubt  that  something  will  allow  itself  to  be  seen  or 
to  be  heard,  —  something  perhaps  excessively  horrible. 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN.       13 

Do  you  think,  if  I  take  you  with  me,  I  may  rely  on  your 
presence  of  mind,  whatever  may  happen  ?  " 

"  0  sir !  pray  trust  me !  "  said  he,  grinning  with  delight. 

"  Very  well,  then,  here  are  the  keys  of  the  house ; 
this  is  the  address.  Go  now,  select  for  me  any  bedroom 
you  please ;  and  since  the  house  has  not  been  inhabited 
for  weeks,  make  up  a  good  fire,  air  the  bed  well,  see, 
of  course,  that  there  are  candles  as  well  as  fuel.  Take 
with  you  my  revolver  and  my  dagger,  —  so  much  for  my 
weapons,  —  arm  yourself  equally  well ;  and  if  we  are  not 
a  match  for  a  dozen  ghosts,  we  shall  be  but  a  sorry 
couple  of  Englishmen." 

I  was  engaged  for  the  rest  of  the  day  on  business  so 
urgent  that  I  had  not  leisure  to  think  much  on  the  noc- 
turnal adventure  to  which  I  had  plighted  my  honor.  I 
dined  alone  and  very  late,  and  while  dining  read,  as  is 
my  habit.  The  volume  I  selected  was  one  of  Macaulay's 
essays.  I  thought  to  myself  that  I  would  take  the  book 
with  me ;  there  was  so  much  of  healthfulness  in  the  style, 
and  practical  life  in  the  subjects,  that  it  would  serve  as 
an  antidote  against  the  influences  of  superstitious  fancy. 

Accordingly,  about  half  past  nine,  I  put  the  book  into 
my  pocket,  and  strolled  leisurely  towards  the  haunted 
house.  I  took  with  me  a  favorite  dog ;  an  exceedingly 
sharp,  bold,  and  vigilant  bull-terrier,  a  dog  fond  of  prowl- 
ing about  strange  ghostly  corners  and  passages  at  night 
in  search  of  rats,  a  dog  of  dogs  for  a  ghost. 

It  was  a  summer  night,  but  chilly,  the  sky  somewhat 
gloomy  and  overcast ;  still  there  was  a  moon,  — faint  and 
sickly,  but  still  a  moon ;  and  if  the  clouds  permitted, 
after  midnight  it  would  be  brighter. 


14  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

I  reached  the  house,  knocked,  and  my  servant  opened 
with  a  cheerful  smile. 

"  All  right,  sir,  and  very  comfortable." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  I,  rather  disappointed ;  "  have  you  not 
seen  nor  heard  anything  remarkable  ?  " 

"Well,  sir,  I  must  own  I  have  heard  something 
queer." 

"  What  P  —  what?" 

"  The  sound  of  feet  pattering  behind  me ;  and  once  or 
twice  small  noises  like  whispers  close  at  my  ear ;  noth- 
ing more." 

"  You  are  not  at  all  frightened  ?  " 

"  I !  not  a  bit  of  it,  sir !  "  And  the  man's  bold  look 
reassured  me  on  one  point,  namely,  that,  happen  what 
might,  he  would  not  desert  me. 

We  were  in  the  hall,  the  street  door  closed,  and  my 
attention  was  now  drawn  to  my  dog.  He  had  at  first 
run  in  eagerly  enough,  but  had  sneaked  back  to  the  door, 
and  was  scratching  and  whining  to  get  out.  After  I  had 
patted  him  on  the  head  and  encouraged  him  gently,  the 
dog  seemed  to  reconcile  himself  to  the  situation,  and 

followed  me  and  F through  the  house,  but  keeping 

close  at  my  heels,  instead  of  hurrying  inquisitively  in 
advance,  which  was  his  usual  and  normal  habit  in  all 
strange  places.  We  first  visited  the  subterranean  apart- 
ments, the  kitchen  and  other  offices,  and  especially  the 
cellars,  in  which  last  were  two  or  three  bottles  of  wine 
still  left  in  a  bin,  covered  with  cobwebs,  and  evidently, 
by  their  appearance,  undisturbed  for  many  years.  It 
was  clear  that  the  ghosts  were  not  winebibbers.  For 
the  rest,  we  discovered  nothing  of  interest.  There  was 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BKAIN.       15 

a  gloomy  little  back  yard,  with  very  high  walls.  The 
stones  of  this  yard  were  very  damp ;  and  what  with  the 
damp,  and  what  with  the  dust  and  smoke-grime  on  the 
pavement,  our  feet  left  a  slight  impression  where  we 
passed.  And  now  appeared  the  first  strange  phenomenon 
witnessed  by  myself  in  this  strange  abode.  I  saw,  just 
before  me,  the  print  of  a  foot  suddenly  form  itself,  as  it 
were.  I  stopped,  caught  hold  of  my  servant,  and  pointed 
to  it.  In  advance  of  that  footprint  as  suddenly  dropped 
another.  "We  both  saw  it.  I  advanced  quickly  to  the 
place ;  the  footprint  kept  advancing  before  me ;  a  small 
footprint,  —  the  foot  of  a  child ;  the  impression  was  too 
faint  thoroughly  to  distinguish  the  shape,  but  it  seemed 
to  us  both  that  it  was  the  print  of  a  naked  foot.  This 
phenomenon  ceased  when  we  arrived  at  the  opposite 
wall,  nor  did  it  repeat  itself  when  we  returned.  We 
remounted  the  stairs,  and  entered  the  rooms  on  the 
ground-floor,  —  a  dining-parlor,  a  small  back  parlor,  and 
a  still  smaller  third  room,  that  had  probably  been  appro- 
priated to  a  footman,  —  all  still  as  death.  We  then  vis- 
ited the  drawing-rooms,  which  seemed  fresh  and  new. 
In  the  front  room  I  seated  myself  in  an  arm-chair. 

F placed  on  the  table  the  candlestick  with  which  he 

had  lighted  us.  I  told  him  to  shut  the  door.  As  he 
turned  to  do  so,  a  chair  opposite  to  me  moved  from  the 
wall  quickly  and  noiselessly,  and  dropped  itself  about  a 
yard  from  my  own  chair,  immediately  fronting  it. 

"  Why,  this  is  better  than  the  turning  tables,"  said  I, 
with  a  half-laugh ;  and  as  I  laughed,  my  dog  put  back  his 
head  and  howled. 

F ,  coming  back,  had  not  observed  the  movement 


16  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

of  the  chair.  He  employed  himself  now  in  stilling  the 
dog.  I  continued  to  gaze  on  the  chair,  and  fancied  I 
saw  on  it  a  pale,  blue,  misty  outline  of  a  human  figure ; 
but  an  outline  so  indistinct  that  I  could  only  distrust  my 
own  vision.  The  dog  was  now  quiet. 

"  Put  back  the  chair  opposite  to  me,"  said  I  to  F , 

"  put  it  back  to  the  wall." 

F obeyed.  "  Was  that  you,  sir  ?  "  said  he,  turn* 

ing  abruptly. 

"I,  — what?" 

"  Why,  something  struck  me.  I  felt  it  sharply  on  the 
shoulder,  just  here." 

"No,"  said  I;  "but  we  have  jugglers  present;  and 
though  we  may  not  discover  their  tricks,  we  shall  catch 
them  before  they  frighten  us." 

We  did  not  stay  long  in  the  drawing-rooms ;  in  fact, 
they  felt  so  damp  and  so  chilly  that  I  was  glad  to  get  to 
the  fire  up  stairs.  We  locked  the  doors  of  the  drawing- 
rooms,  —  a  precaution  which,  I  should  observe,  we  had 
taken  with  all  the  rooms  we  had  searched  below.  The 
bedroom  my  servant  had  selected  for  me  was  the  best  on 
the  floor;  a  krge  one,  with  two  windows  fronting  the 
street.  The  four-posted  bed,  which  took  up  no  incon- 
siderable space,  was  opposite  to  the  fire,  which  burned 
clear  and  bright ;  a  door  in  the  wall  to  the  left,  between 
the  bed  and  the  window,  communicated  with  the  room 
which  my  servant  appropriated  to  himself.  This  last 
was  a  small  room  with  a  sofa-bed,  and  had  no  communi- 
cation with  the  landing-place;  no  other  door  but  that 
which  conducted  to  the  bedroom  I  was  to  occupy.  On 
either  side  of  my  fireplace  was  a  cupboard,  without 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN.       17 

locks,  flush  with  the  wall,  and  covered  with  the  same 
dull-brown  paper.  We  examined  these  cupboards  ;  only 
hooks  to  suspend  female  dresses,  —  nothing  else.  "We 
sounded  the  walls;  evidently"  solid,  —  the  outer  walls 
of  the  building.  Having  finished  the'  survey  of  these 
apartments,  warmed  myself  a  few  moments,  and  lighted 

my  cigar,  I  then,  still  accompanied  by  P ,  went  forth 

to  complete  my  reconnoitre.  In  the  landing-place  there 
was  another  door;  it  was  closed  firmly.  "Sir,"  said 
my  servant  hi  surprise,  "  I  unlocked  this  door  with  all 
the  others  when  I  first  came ;  it  cannot  have  got  locked 
from  the  inside,  for  it  is  a  —  " 

Before  he  had  finished  his  sentence,  the  door,  which  nei- 
ther of  us  then  was  touching,  opened  quietly  of  itself.  We 
looked  at  each  other  a  single  instant.  The  same  thought 
seized  both ;  some  human  agency  might  be  detected  here. 
I  rushed  in  first,  my  servant  followed.  A  small,  blank, 
dreary  room  without  furniture,  a  few  empty  boxes  and 
hampers  in  a  corner,  a  small  window,  the  shutters  closed, 
—  not  even  a  fireplace,  —  no  other  door  but  that  by  which 
we  had  entered,  no  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  the  floor  seemed 
very  old,  uneven,  worm-eaten,  mended  here  and  there,  as 
was  shown  by  the  whiter  patches  on  the  wood ;  but  no 
living  being,  and  no  visible  place  in  which  a  living  being 
could  have  hidden.  As  we  stood  gazing  round,  the  door 
by  which  we  had  entered  closed  as  quietly  as  it  had  before 
opened ;  we  were  imprisoned. 

Eor  the  first  time  I  felt  a  creep  of  undefinable  horror. 
Not  so  my  servant.  "  Why,  they  don't  tliink  to  trap  us, 
sir ;  I  oould  break  that  trumpery  door  with  a  kick  of  my 
foot." 


18  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

"  Try  first  if  it  will  open  to  your  hand,"  said  I,  shaking 
off  the  vague  apprehension  that  had  seized  me,  "  while  I 
open  the  shutters  and  see  what  is  without." 

I  unbarred  the  shutters :  the  window  looked  on  the 
little  back  yard  I  have  before  described ;  there  was  no 
ledge  without,  nothing  but  sheer  descent.  No  man 
getting  out  of  that  window  would  have  found  any  foot- 
ing till  he  had  fallen  on  the  stones  below. 

F meanwhile  was  vainly  attempting  to  open  the 

door.  He  now  turned  round  to  me  and  asked  my  per- 
mission to  use  force.  And  I  should  here  state,  in  justice 
to  the  servant,  that,  far  from  evincing  any  superstitious 
terror,  his  nerve,  composure,  and  even  gayety  amidst 
circumstances  so  extraordinary,  compelled  my  admira- 
tion, and  made  me  congratulate  myself  on  having  secured 
a  companion  in  every  way  fitted  to  the  occasion.  I 
willingly  gave  him  the  permission  he  required.  But, 
though  he  was  a  remarkably  strong  man,  his  force  was 
as  idle  as  his  milder  efforts ;  the  door  did  not  even  shake 
to  his  stoutest  kick.  Breathless  and  panting,  he  de- 
sisted. I  then  tried  the  door  myself,  equally  in  vain.  As 
I  ceased  from  the  effort,  again  that  creep  of  horror  came 
over  me ;  but  this  time  it  was  more  cold  and  stubborn. 
I  felt  as  if  some  strange  and  ghastly  exhalation  were 
rising  from  the  chinks  of  that  rugged  floor  and  filling 
the  atmosphere  with  a  venomous  influence  hostile  to 
human  life.  The  door  now  very  slowly  and  quietly 
opened  as  of  its  own  accord.  We  precipitated  ourselves 
into  the  landing-place.  We  both  saw  a  large,  pale  light 
—  as  large  as  the  human  figure,  but  shapeless  and  un- 
substantial —  move  before  us  and  ascend  the  stairs  that 


THE   HOUSE   AND   THE   BRAIN.  19 

led  from  the  landing  into  the  attics.  I  followed  the 
light,  and  my  servant  followed  me.  It  entered,  to  the 
right  of  the  landing,  a  small  garret,  of  which  the  door 
stood  open.  I  entered  in  the  same  instant.  The  light 
then  collapsed  into  a  small  globule,  exceedingly  brill- 
iant and  vivid;  rested  a  moment  on  a  bed  in  the  cor- 
ner, quivered,  and  vanished.  We  approached  the  bed 
and  examined  it,  —  a  half-tester,  such  as  is  commonly 
found  in  attics  devoted  to  servants.  On  the  drawers 
that  stood  near  it  we  perceived  an  old  faded  silk  ker- 
chief, with  the  needle  still  left  in  the  rent  half  repaired. 
The  kerchief  was  covered  with  dust;  probably  it  had 
belonged  to  the  old  woman  who  had  last  died  in  that 
house,  and  this  might  have  been  her  sleeping-room.  I 
had  sufficient  curiosity  to  open  the  drawers ;  there  were 
a  few  odds  and  ends  of  female  dress,  and  two  letters  tied 
round  with  a  narrow  ribbon  of  faded  yellow.  I  took 
the  liberty  to  possess  myself  of  the  letters.  We  found 
nothing  else  in  the  room  worth  noticing,  nor  did  the 
light  reappear;  but  we  distinctly  heard,  as  we  turned 
to  go,  a  pattering  footfall  on  the  floor  just  before  us. 
We  went  through  the  other  attics  (in  all  four),  the  foot- 
fall still  preceding  us.  Nothing  to  be  seen,  nothing 
but  the  footfall  heard.  I  had  the  letters  in  my  hand ; 
just  as  I  was  descending  the  stairs  I  distinctly  felt  my 
wrist  seized,  and  a  faint,  soft  effort  made  to  draw  the 
letters  from  my  clasp.  I  only  held  them  the  more 
tightly,  and  the  effort  ceased. 

We  regained  the  bedchamber  appropriated  to  myself, 
and  I  then  remarked  that  my  dog  had  not  followed  us 
when  we  had  left  it.  He  was  thrusting  himself  close 


20  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

to  the  fire  and  trembling.  I  was  impatient  to  examine 
the  letters ;  and  while  I  read  them  my  servant  opened 
a  little  box  in  which  he  had  deposited  the  weapons  I 
had  ordered  him  to  bring,  took  them  out,  placed  them 
on  a  table  close  at  my  bed-head,  and  then  occupied  him- 
self in  soothing  the  dog,  who,  however,  seemed  to  heed 
him  very  little. 

The  letters  were  short ;  they  were  dated,  —  the  dates 
exactly  thirty-five  years  ago.  They  were  evidently  from 
a  lover  to  his  mistress,  or  a  husband  to  some  young 
wife.  Not  only  the  terms  of  expression,  but  a  distinct 
reference  to  a  former  voyage  indicated  the  writer  to  have 
been  a  seafarer.  The  spelling  and  handwriting  were 
those  of  a  man  imperfectly  educated ;  but  still  the  lan- 
guage itself  was  forcible.  In  the  expressions  of  endear- 
ment there  was  a  kind  of  rough,  wild  love;  but  here 
and  there  were  dark  unintelligible  hints  at  some  secret 
not  of  love,  —  some  secret  that  seemed  of  crime.  "  We 
ought  to  love  each  other,"  was  one  of  the  sentences  I 
remember,  "for  how  every  one  else  would  execrate  us 
if  all  was  known."  Again:  "Don't  let  any  one  be  in 
the  same  room  with  you  at  night,  —  you  talk  in  your 
sleep."  And  again:  "What's  done  can't  be  undone: 
and  I  tell  you  there 's  nothing  against  us,  unless  the 
dead  could  come  to  life."  Here  was  interlined,  in  a 
better  handwriting  (a  female's),  "  They  do ! "  At  the 
end  of  the  letter  latest  in  date  the  same  female  hand 
had  written  these  words :  "  Lost  at  sea  the  4th  of 
June,  the  same  day  as — " 

I  put  down  the  letters,  and  began  to  muse  over  their 
contents. 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN.       21 

Fearing,  however,  that  the  train  of  thought  into  which 
I  fell  might  unsteady  my  nerves,  I  fully  determined  to 
keep  my  mind  in  a  fit  state  to  cope  with  whatever  of 
marvellous  the  advancing  night  might  bring  forth.  I 
roused  myself,  laid  the  letters  on  the  table,  stirred  up 
the  fire,  which  was  still  bright  and  cheering,  and  opened 
my  volume  of  Macaulay.  I  read  quietly  enough,  till 
about  half  past  eleven.  I  then  threw  myself  dressed 
upon  the  bed,  and  told  my  servant  he  might  retire  to 
his  own  room,  but  must  keep  himself  awake.  I  bade 
him  leave  open  the  doors  between  the  two  rooms. 
Thus,  alone,  I  kept  two  candles  burning  on  the  table 
by  my  bed-head.  I  placed  my  watch  beside  the  weap- 
ons, and  calmly  resumed  my  Macaulay.  Opposite  to 
me  the  fire  burned  clear ;  and  on  the  hearth-rug,  seem- 
ingly asleep,  lay  the  dog.  In  about  twenty  minutes  I 
felt  an  exceedingly  cold  air  pass  by  my  cheek,  like  a 
sudden  draught.  I  fancied  the  door  to  my  right,  com- 
municating with  the  landing-place,  must  have  got  open ; 
but  no,  it  was  closed.  I  then  turned  my  glance  to 
the  left,  and  saw  the  flame  of  the  candles  violently 
swayed  as  by  a  wind.  At  the  same  moment  the  watch 
beside  the  revolver  softly  slid  from  the  table,  —  softly, 
softly,  —  no  visible  hand, — it  was  gone.  I  sprang  up, 
seizing  the  revolver  with  the  one  hand,  the  dagger  with 
the  other:  I  was  not  willing  that  my  weapons  should 
share  the  fate  of  the  watch.  Thus  armed,  I  looked 
round  the  floor:  no  sign  of  the  watch.  Three  slow, 
loud,  distinct  knocks  were  now  heard  at  the  bed-head ; 
my  servant  called  out,  "  Is  that  you,  sir  ? " 
"  No ;  be  on  your  guard." 


22  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

The  dog  now  roused  himself  and  sat  on  his  haunches, 
his  ears  moving  quickly  backward  and  forward.  He 
kept  his  eye  fixed  on  me  with  a  look  so  strange  that  he 
concentred  all  my  attention  on  himself.  Slowly  he  rose, 
all  his  hair  bristling,  and  stood  perfectly  rigid,  and  with 
the  same  wild  stare.  I  had  no  time,  however,  to  ex- 
amine the  dog.  Presently  my  servant  emerged  from 
his  room ;  and  if  I  ever  saw  horror  in  the  human  face, 
it  was  then.  I  should  not  have  recognized  him  had  we 
met  in  the  streets,  so  altered  was  every  lineament.  He 
passed  by  me  quickly,  saying  in  a  whisper  that  seemed 
scarcely  to  come  from  his  lips,  "  Run !  run !  it  is  after 
me ! "  He  gained  the  door  to  the  landing,  pulled  it 
open,  and  rushed  forth.  I  followed  him  into  the  landing 
involuntarily,  calling  him  to  stop ;  but,  without  heeding 
me,  he  bounded  down  the  stairs,  clinging  to  the  balusters 
and  taking  several  steps  at  a  time.  I  heard,  where  I 
stood,  the  street  door  open,  heard  it  again  clap  to.  I 
was  left  alone  in  the  haunted  house. 

It  was  but  for  a  moment  that  I  remained  undecided 
whether  or  not  to  follow  my  servant ;  pride  and  curiosity 
alike  forbade  so  dastardly  a  flight.  I  re-entered  my 
room,  closing  the  door  after  me,  and  proceeded  cau- 
tiously into  the  interior  chamber.  I  encountered  nothing 
to  justify  my  servant's  terror.  I  again  carefully  exam- 
ined the  walls,  to  see  if  there  were  any  concealed  door. 
I  could  find  no  trace  of  one,  —  not  even  a  seam  in  the 
dull-brown  paper  with  which  the  room  was  hung.  How 
then  had  the  THING,  whatever  it  was,  which  had  so  scared 
him,  obtained  ingress,  except  through  my  own  chamber  ? 

I  returned  to  my  room,  shut  and  locked  the  door  that 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN.       23 

opened  upon  the  interior  one,  and  stood  on  the  hearth, 
expectant  and  prepared.  I  now  perceived  that  the  dog 
had  slunk  into  an  angle  of  the  wall,  and  was  pressing  close 
against  it,  as  if  literally  striving  to  force  his  way  into  it. 
I  approached  the  animal  and  spoke  to  it ;  the  poor  brute 
was  evidently  beside  itself  with  terror.  It  showed  all 
its  teeth,  the  slaver  dropping  from  its  jaws,  and  would 
certainly  have  bitten  me  if  I  had  touched  it.  It  did 
not  seem  to  recognize  me.  Whoever  has  seen  at  the 
Zoological  Gardens  a  rabbit  fascinated  by  a  serpent, 
cowering  in  a  corner,  may  form  some  idea  of  the  an- 
guish which  the  dog  exhibited.  Finding  all  efforts  to 
soothe  the  animal  in  vain,  and  fearing  that  his  bite 
might  be  as  venomous  in  that  state  as  if  in  the  madness 
of  hydrophobia,  I  left  him  alone,  placed  my  weapons  on 
the  table  beside  the  fire,  seated  myself,  and  recommenced 
my  Macaulay. 

Perhaps,  in  order  not  to  appear  seeking  credit  for  a 
courage,  or  rather  a  coolness,  which  the  reader  may 
conceive  I  exaggerate,  I  may  be  pardoned  if  I  pause  to 
indulge  in  one  or  two  egotistical  remarks. 

As  I  hold  presence  of  mind,  or  what  is  called  courage, 
to  be  precisely  proportioned  to  familiarity  with  the  cir- 
cumstances that  lead  to  it,  so  I  should  say  that  I  had 
been  long  sufficiently  familiar  with  all  experiments  that 
appertain  to  the  marvellous.  I  had  witnessed  many 
very  extraordinary  phenomena  in  various  parts  of  the 
world,  —  phenomena  that  would  be  either  totally  disbe- 
lieved if  I  stated  them,  or  ascribed  to  supernatural  agen- 
cies. Now,  my  theory  is,  that  the  supernatural  is  the 
impossible,  and  that  what  is  called  supernatural  is  only 


24  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

a  something  in  the  laws  of  nature  of  which  we  have  been 
hitherto  ignorant.  Therefore,  if  a  ghost  rise  before  me, 
I  have  not  the  right  to  say,  "  So,  then,  the  supernatural 
is  possible,"  but  rather,  "  So,  then,  the  apparition  of  a 
ghost  is,  contrary  to  received  opinion,  within  the  laws 
of  nature,  namely,  not  supernatural." 

Now,  in  all  that  I  had  hitherto  witnessed,  and  indeed 
in  all  the  wonders  which  the  amateurs  of  mystery  in  our 
age  record  as  facts,  a  material  living  agency  is  always 
required.  On  the  Continent  you  will  find  still  magicians 
who  assert  that  they  can  raise  spirits.  Assume  for  the  mo- 
ment that  they  assert  truly,  still  the  living  material  form 
of  the  magician  is  present ;  and  he  is  the  material  agency 
by  which,  from  some  constitutional  peculiarities,  certain 
strange  phenomena  are  represented  to  your  natural  senses. 

Accept,  again,  as  truthful  the  tales  of  spirit  manifes- 
tation in  America,  —  musical  or  other  sounds,  writings  on 
paper,  produced  by  no  discernible  hand,  articles  of  fur- 
niture moved  without  apparent  human  agency,  or  the 
actual  sight  and  touch  of  hands,  to  which  no  bodies 
seem  to  belong,  —  still  there  must  be  found  the  medium, 
or  living  being,  with  constitutional  peculiarities  capable 
of  obtaining  these  signs.  In  fine,  in  all  such  marvels, 
supposing  even  that  there  is  no  imposture,  there  must 
be  a  human  being  like  ourselves,  by  whom  or  through 
whom  the  effects  presented  to  human  beings  are  pro- 
duced. It  is  so  with  the  now  familiar  phenomena  of 
mesmerism  or  electro-biology;  the  mind  of  the  person 
operated  on  is  affected  through  a  material  living  agent. 
Nor,  supposing  it  true  that  a  mesmerized  patient  can 
respond  to  the  will  or  passes  of  a  mesmerizer  a  hundred 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BEAIN.       25 

miles  distant,  is  the  response  less  occasioned  by  a  mate- 
rial being.  It  may  be  through  a  material  fluid,  call  it 
Electric,  call  it  Odic,  call  it  what  you  will,  which  has 
the  power  of  traversing  space  and  passing  obstacles, 
that  the  material  effect  is  communicated  from  one  to 
the  other.  Hence,  all  that  I  had  hitherto  witnessed, 
or  expected  to  witness,  in  this  strange  house,  I  believed 
to  be  occasioned  through  some  agency  or  medium  as 
mortal  as  myself;  and  this  idea  necessarily  prevented 
the  awe  with  which  those  who  regard  as  supernatural 
things  that  are  not  within  the  ordinary  operations  of 
nature  might  have  been  impressed  by  the  adventures 
of  that  memorable  night. 

As,  then,  it  was  my  conjecture  that  all  that  was  pre- 
sented, or  would  be  presented,  to  my  senses,  must  origi- 
nate in  some  human  being  gifted  by  constitution  with 
the  power  so  to  present  them,  and  having  some  motive 
so  to  do,  I  felt  an  interest  in  my  theory  which,  in  its 
way,  was  rather  philosophical  than  superstitious.  And 
I  can  sincerely  say  that  I  was  in  as  tranquil  a  temper 
for  observation  as  any  practical  experimentalist  could 
be  in  awaiting  the  effects  of  some  rare,  though  perhaps 
perilous,  chemical  combination.  Of  course,  the  more  I 
kept  my  mind  detached  from  fancy,  the  more  the  temper 
fitted  for  observation  would  be  obtained;  and  I  there- 
fore riveted  eye  and  thought  on  the  strong  daylight 
sense  in  the  page  of  my  Macaulay. 

I  now  became  aware  that  something  interposed  be- 
tween the  page  and  the  light:  the  page  was  overshad- 
owed. I  looked  up  and  I  saw  what  I  shall  find  it  very 
difficult,  perhaps  impossible,  to  describe. 

VOL.   II.  2 


26  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

It  was  a  darkness  shaping  itself  out  of  the  air  in  very 
undefined  outline.  I  cannot  say  it  was  of  a  human  form, 
and  yet  it  had  more  of  a  resemblance  to  a  human  form, 
or  rather  shadow,  than  anything  else.  As  it  stood, 
wholly  apart  and  distinct  from  the  air  and  the  light 
•  around  it,  its  dimensions  seemed  gigantic ;  the  summit 
nearly  touched  the  ceiling.  While  I  gazed,  a  feeling  of 
intense  cold  seized  me.  An  iceberg  before  me  could 
not  more  have  chilled  me;  nor  could  the  cold  of  an 
iceberg  have  been  more  purely  physical.  I  feel  con- 
vinced that  it  was  not  the  cold  caused  by  fear.  As  I 
continued  to  gaze,  I  thought  —  but  this  I  cannot  say 
with  precision  —  that  I  distinguished  two  eyes  looking 
down  on  me  from  the  height.  One  moment  I  seemed 
to  distinguish  them  clearly,  the  next  they  seemed  gone ; 
but  two  rays  of  a  pale  blue  light  frequently  shot  through 
the  darkness,  as  from  the  height  on  which  I  half  believed, 
half  doubted,  that  I  had  encountered  the  eyes. 

I  strove  to  speak ;  my  voice  utterly  failed  me.  I  could 
only  think  to  myself,  "  Is  this  fear  P  it  is  not  fear ! "  I 
strove  to  rise,  in  vain ;  I  felt  as  if  weighed  down  by  an 
irresistible  force.  Indeed,  my  impression  was  that  of  an 
immense  and  overwhelming  power  opposed  to  my  voli- 
tion; that  sense  of  utter  inadequacy  to  cope  with  a 
force  beyond  men's,  which  one  may  feel  physically  in  a 
storm  at  sea,  in  a  conflagration,  or  when  confronting  some 
terrible  wild  beast,  or  rather,  perhaps,  the  shark  of  the 
ocean,  I  felt  morally.  Opposed  to  my  will  was  another 
will,  as  far  superior  to  its  strength  as  storm,  fire,  and 
shark  are  superior  in  material  force  to  the  force  of  men. 

And  now,  as  this  impression  grew  on  me,  now  came, 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN.       27 

at  last,  horror,  —  horror  to  a  degree  that  no  words  can 
convey.  Still  I  retained  pride,  if  not  courage;  and  in 
my  own  mind  I  said,  "  This  is  horror,  but  it  is  not  fear ; 
unless  I  fear,  I  cannot  be  harmed;  my  reason  rejects 
this  thing ;  it  is  an  illusion,  I  do  not  fear."  With  a 
violent  effort  I  succeeded  at  last  in  stretching  out  my 
hand  towards  the  weapon  on  the  table ;  as  I  did  so,  on 
the  arm  and  shoulder  I  received  a  strange  shock,  and 
my  arm  fell  to  my  side  powerless.  And  now,  to  add  to 
my  horror,  the  light  began  slowly  to  wane  from  the 
candles ;  they  were  not,  as  it  were,  extinguished,  but 
their  flame  seemed  very  gradually  withdrawn;  it  was 
the  same  with  the  fire,  the  light  was  extracted  from  the 
fuel ;  in  a  few  minutes  the  room  was  in  utter  darkness. 
The  dread  that  came  over  me  to  be  thus  in  the  dark 
with  that  dark  thing,  whose  power  was  so  intensely  felt, 
brought  a  reaction  of  nerve.  In  fact,  terror  had  reached 
that  climax,  that  either  my  senses  must  have  deserted 
me,  or  I  must  have  burst  through  the  spelL  I  did  burst 
through  it.  I  found  voice,  though  the  voice  was  a 
shriek.  I  remember  that  I  broke  forth  with  words  like 
these,  "  I  do  not  fear,  my  soul  does  not  fear  " ;  and  at 
the  same  time  I  found  strength  to  rise.  Still  in  that 
profound  gloom  I  rushed  to  one  of  the  windows,  tore 
aside  the  curtain,  flung  open  the  shutters;  my  first 
thought  was,  LIGHT.  And  when  I  saw  the  moon,  high, 
clear,  and  calm,  I  felt  a  joy  that  almost  compensated  for 
the  previous  terror.  There  was  the  moon,  there  was 
also  the  light  from  the  gas-lamps  in  the  deserted,  slum- 
berous street.  I  turned  to  look  back  into  the  room ;  the 
moon  penetrated  its  shadow  very  palely  and  partially, 


28  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

but  still  there  was  light.  The  dark  thing,  whatever  it 
might  be,  was  gone ;  except  that  I  could  yet  see  a  dim 
shadow,  which  seemed  the  shadow  of  that  shade,  against 
the  opposite  wall. 

My  eye  now  rested  on  the  table,  and  from  under  the 
table  (which  was  without  cloth  or  cover,  an  old  mahogany 
round  table)  rose  a  hand,  visible  as  far  as  the  wrist.  It 
was  a  hand,  seemingly,  as  much  of  flesh  and  blood  as  my 
own,  but  the  hand  of  an  aged  person,  lean,  wrinkled, 
small  too,  a  woman's  hand.  That  hand  very  softly  closed 
on  the  two  letters  that  lay  on  the  table ;  hand  and  letters 
both  vanished.  Then  came  the  same  three  loud  meas- 
ured knocks  I  had  heard  at  the  bed-head  before  this 
extraordinary  drama  had  commenced. 

As  these  sounds  slowly  ceased,  I  felt  the  whole  room 
vibrate  sensibly;  and  at  the  far  end  rose,  as  from  the 
floor,  sparks  or  globules  like  bubbles  of  light,  many- 
colored,  —  green,  yellow,  fire-red,  azure,  —  up  and  down, 
to  and  fro,  hither,  thither,  as  tiny  will-o'-the-wisps  the 
sparks  moved,  slow  or  swift,  each  at  its  own  caprice. 
A  chair  (as  in  the  drawing-room  below)  was  now  ad- 
vanced from  the  wall  without  apparent  agency,  and 
placed  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  table.  Suddenly,  as 
forth  from  the  chair,  grew  a  shape,  a  woman's  shape. 
It  was  distinct  as  a  shape  of  life,  ghastly  as  a  shape  of 
death.  The  face  was  that  of  youth,  with  a  strange, 
mournful  beauty;  the  throat  and  shoulders  were  bare, 
the  rest  of  the  form  in  a  loose  robe  of  cloudy  white. 
It  began  sleeking  its  long  yellow  hair,  which  fell  over 
its  shoulders;  its  eyes  were  not  turned  toward  me, 
but  to  the  door ;  it  seemed  listening,  watching,  waiting. 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN.       29 

The  shadow  of  the  shade  in  the  background  grew  darker ; 
and  again  I  thought  I  beheld  the  eyes  gleaming  out  from 
the  summit  of  the  shadow,  eyes  fixed  upon  that  shape. 

As  if  from  the  door,  though  it  did  not  open,  grew  out 
another  shape,  equally  distinct,  equally  ghastly,  —  a  man's 
shape,  a  young  man's.  It  was  in  the  dress  of  the  last 
century,  or  rather  in  a  likeness  of  such  dress ;  for  both 
the  male  shape  and  the  female,  though  defined,  were 
evidently  unsubstantial,  impalpable,  —  simulacra,  phan- 
tasms ;  and  there  was  something  incongruous,  grotesque, 
yet  fearful,  in  the  contrast  between  the  elaborate  finery, 
the  courtly  precision  of  that  old-fashioned  garb,  with  its 
ruffles  and  lace  and  buckles,  and  the  corpse-like  aspect 
and  ghost-like  stillness  of  the  flitting  wearer.  Just  as 
the  male  shape  approached  the  female,  the  dark  shadow 
darted  from  the  wall,  all  three  for  a  moment  wrapped 
in  darkness.  When  the  pale  light  returned,  the  two 
phantoms  were  as  if  in  the  grasp  of  the  shadow  that 
towered  between  them,  and  there  was  a  blood-stain  on 
the  breast  of  the  female;  and  the  phantom  male  was 
leaning  on  its  phantom  sword,  and  blood  seemed  trick- 
ling fast  from  the  ruffles,  from  the  lace ;  and  the  dark- 
ness of  the  intermediate  shadow  swallowed  them  up, 
they  were  gone.  And  again  the  bubbles  of  light  shot, 
and  sailed,  and  undulated,  growing  thicker  and  thicker 
and  more  wildly  confused  in  their  movements. 

The  closet  door  to  the  right  of  the  fireplace  now 
opened,  and  from  the  aperture  came  the  form  of  a 
woman,  aged.  In  her  hand  she  held  letters,  —  the  very 
letters  over  which  I  had  seen  the  hand  close;  and 
behind  her  I  heard  a  footstep.  She  turned  round  as  if 


30  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

to  listen,  and  then  she  opened  the  letters  and  seemed  to 
read :  and  over  her  shoulder  I  saw  a  livid  face,  the  face 
as  of  a  man  long  drowned,  —  bloated,  bleached,  sea- 
weed tangled  in  its  dripping  hair ;  and  at  her  feet  lay  a 
form  as  of  a  corpse,  and  beside  the  corpse  cowered  a 
child,  a  miserable,  squalid  child,  with  famine  in  its 
cheeks  and  fear  in  its  eyes.  And  as  I  looked  in  the  old 
woman's  face,  the  wrinkles  and  lines  vanished,  and  it 
became  a  face  of  youth,  —  hard-eyed,  stony,  but  still 
youth ;  and  the  shadow  darted  forth  and  darkened  over 
these  phantoms,  as  it  had  darkened  over  the  last. 

Nothing  now  was  left  but  the  shadow,  and  on  that 
my  eyes  were  intently  fixed,  till  again  eyes  grew  out  of 
the  shadow,  —  malignant,  serpent  eyes.  And  the  bub- 
bles of  light  again  rose  and  fell,  and  in  their  disordered, 
irregular,  turbulent  maze  mingled  with  the  wan  moon- 
light. And  now  from  these  globules  themselves,  as 
from  the  shell  of  an  egg,  monstrous  things  burst  out ; 
the  air  grew  filled  with  them ;  larvae  so  bloodless  and  so 
hideous  that  I  can  in  no  way  describe  them,  except  to 
remind  the  reader  of  the  swarming  life  which  the  solar 
microscope  brings  before  his  eyes  in  a  drop  of  water,  — 
things  transparent,  supple,  agile,  chasing  each  other, 
devouring  each  other,  —  forms  like  naught  ever  beheld 
by  the  naked  eye.  As  the  shapes  were  without  symme- 
try, so  their  movements  were  without  order.  In  their 
very  vagrancies  there  was  no  sport;  they  came  round 
me  and  round,  thicker  and  faster  and  swifter,  swarming 
over  my  head,  crawling  over  my  right  arm,  which  was 
outstretched  in  involuntary  command  against  all  evil 
beings.  Sometimes  I  felt  myself  touched,  but  not  by 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BEAIN.       31 

them ;  invisible  hands  touched  me.  Once  I  felt  the  clutch 
as  of  cold,  soft  lingers  at  my  throat.  I  was  still  equally 
conscious  that  if  I  gave  way  to  fear  I  should  be  in  bodily 
peril,  and  I  concentred  all  my  faculties  in  the  single 
focus  of  resisting,  stubborn  will.  And  I  turned  my 
sight  from  the  shadow,  above  all  from  those  strange  ser- 
pent eyes,  —  eyes  that  had  now  become  distinctly  visible. 
For  there,  though  in  naught  else  around  me,  I  was 
aware  that  there  was  a  will,  and  a  will  of  intense,  crea- 
tive, working  evil,  which  might  crush  down  my  own. 

The  pale  atmosphere  in  the  room  began  now  to  redden 
as  if  in  the  air  of  some  near  conflagration.  The  larvae 
grew  lurid  as  things  that  live  in  fire.  Again  the  room 
vibrated ;  again  were  heard  the  three  measured  knocks ; 
and  again  all  things  were  swallowed  up  in  the  darkness 
of  the  dark  shadow,  as  if  out  of  that  darkness  all  had 
come,  into  that  darkness  all  returned. 

As  the  gloom  receded,  the  shadow  was  wholly  gone. 
Slowly  as  it  had  been  withdrawn,  the  flame  grew  again 
into  the  candles  on  the  table,  again  into  the  fuel  in  the 
grate.  The  whole  room  came  once  more  calmly,  health- 
fully into  sight. 

The  two  doors  were  still  closed,  the  door  communicat- 
ing with  the  servant's  room  still  locked.  In  the  corner 
of  the  wall,  into  which  he  had  convulsively  niched  him- 
self, lay  the  dog.  I  called  to  him,  —  no  movement ;  I 
approached,  —  the  animal  was  dead  ;  his  eyes  protruded, 
his  tongue  out  of  his  mouth,  the  froth  gathered  round 
his  jaws.  I  took  him  in  my  arms  ;  I  brought  him  to  the 
fire ;  I  felt  acute  grief  for  the  loss  of  my  poor  favorite, 
acute  self-reproach ;  I  accused  myself  of  his  death;  I 


82  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

imagined  he  had  died  of  fright.  But  what  was  my  sur- 
prise on  finding  that  his  neck  was  actually  broken,  — 
actually  twisted  out  of  the  vertebrae.  Had  this  been 
done  in  the  dark?  Must  it  not  have  been  done  by  a 
hand  human  as  mine  P  Must  there  not  have  been  a 
human  agency  all  the  while  in  that  room  ?  Good  cause 
to  suspect  it.  I  cannot  tell.  I  cannot  do  more  than 
state  the  fact  fairly ;  the  reader  may  draw  his  own  infer- 
ence. 

Another  surprising  circumstance,  —  my  watch  was 
restored  to  the  table  from  which  it  had  been  so  mysteri- 
ously withdrawn;  but  it  had  stopped  at  the  very  mo- 
ment it  was  so  withdrawn ;  nor,  despite  all  the  skill  of 
the  watchmaker,  has  it  ever  gone  since :  that  is,  it  will 
go  in  a  strange,  erratic  way  for  a  few  hours,  and  then 
comes  to  a  dead  stop;  it  is  worthless. 

Nothing  more  chanced  for  the  rest  of  the  night ;  nor, 
indeed,  had  I  long  to  wait  before  the  dawn  broke.  Not 
till  it  was  broad  daylight  did  I  quit  the  haunted  house. 
Before  I  did  so,  I  revisited  the  little  blind  room  in  which 
my  servant  and  I  had  been  for  a  time  imprisoned.  I 
had  a  strong  impression,  for  which  I  could  not  account, 
that  from  that  room  had  originated  the  mechanism  of  the 
phenomena,  if  I  may  use  the  term,  which  had  been  expe- 
rienced in  my  chamber ;  and  though  I  entered  it  now  in 
the  clear  day,  with  the  sun  peering  through  the  filmy 
window,  I  still  felt,  as  I  stood  on  its  floor,  the  creep  of 
the  horror  which  I  had  first  experienced  there  the  night 
before,  and  which  had  been  so  aggravated  by  what  had 
passed  in  my  own  chamber.  I  could  not,  indeed,  bear 
to  stay  more  than  half  a  minute  within  those  walls.  I 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN.       83 

descended  the  stairs,  and  again  I  heard  the  footfall 
before  me ;  and  when  I  opened  the  street  door  I  thought 
I  could  distinguish  a  very  low  laugh.  I  gained  my  own 
home,  expecting  to  find  my  runaway  servant  there.  But 
he  had  not  presented  himself;  nor  did  I  hear  more  of 
him  for  three  days,  when  I  received  a  letter  from  him, 
dated  from  Liverpool,  to  this  effect:  — 

"  HONORED  SIR,  —  I  humbly  entreat  your  pardon, 
though  I  can  scarcely  hope  that  you  will  think  I  deserve 
it,  unless  —  which  Heaven  forbid! — you  saw  what  I 
did.  I  feel  that  it  will  be  years  before  I  can  recover  my- 
self ;  and  as  to  being  fit  for  service,  it  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. I  am  therefore  going  to  my  brother-in-law  at 
Melbourne.  The  ship  sails  to-morrow.  Perhaps  the 
long  voyage  may  set  me  up.  I  do  nothing  now  but 
start  and  tremble,  and  fancy  it  is  behind  me.  I  humbly 
beg  you,  honored  sir,  to  order  my  clothes,  and  whatever 
wages  are  due  to  me,  to  be  sent  to  my  mother's  at  Wai- 
worth  :  John  knows  her  address." 

The  letter  ended  with  additional  apologies,  somewhat 
incoherent,  and  explanatory  details  as  to  effects  that  had 
been  under  the  writer's  charge. 

This  flight  may  perhaps  warrant  a  suspicion  that  the 
man  wished  to  go  to  Australia,  and  had  been  somehow 
or  other  fraudulently  mixed  up  with  the  events  of  the 
night.  I  say  nothing  in  refutation  of  that  conjecture; 
rather,  I  suggest  it  as  one  that  would  seem  to  many  per- 
sons the  most  probable  solution  of  improbable  occur- 
rences. My  own  theory  remained  unshaken.  I  returned 
in  the  evening  to  the  house,  to  bring  away  in  a  hack  cab 
2»  C 


84  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

the  things  I  had  left  there,  with  my  poor  dog's  body. 
In  this  task  I  was  not  disturbed,  nor  did  any  incident 
Worth  note  befall  me,  except  that  still,  on  ascending  and 
descending  the  stairs,  I  heard  the  same  footfall  in  ad- 
vance. On  leaving  the  house,  I  went  to  Mr.  J 'a. 

fie  was  at  home.  I  returned  him  the  keys,  told  him 
that  my  curiosity  was  sufficiently  gratified,  and  was 
about  to  relate  quickly  what  had  passed,  when  he  stopped 
toe  and  said,  though  with  much  politeness,  that  he  had 
fco  longer  any  interest  in  a  mystery  which  none  had  ever 
tolved. 

I  determined  at  least  to  tell  him  of  the  two  letters  I 
tad  read,  as  well  as  of  the  extraordinary  manner  in 
which  they  had  disappeared ;  and  I  then  inquired  if  he 
thought  they  had  been  addressed  to  the  woman  who  had 
died  in  the  house,  and  if  there  were  anything  in  her 
early  history  which  could  possibly  confirm  the  dark  sus- 
picions to  which  the  letters  gave  rise.  Mr.  J 

seemed  startled,  and,  after  musing  a  few  moments,  an- 
swered :  "  I  know  but  little  of  the  woman's  earlier  his- 
tory, except,  as  I  before  told  you,  that  her  family  were 
known  to  mine.  But  you  revive  some  vague  reminis- 
cences to  her  prejudice.  I  will  make  inquiries,  and 
inform  you  of  their  result.  Still,  even  if  we  could  admit 
the  popular  superstition  that  a  person  who  had  been 
either  the  perpetrator  or  the  victim  of  dark  crimes  in 
life  could  revisit,  as  a  restless  spirit,  the  scene  in  which 
those  crimes  had  been  committed,  I  should  observe  that 
the  house  was  infested  by  strange  sights  and  sounds  before 
the  old  woman  died.  You  smile;  what  would  «ou 
say?" 


THE   HOUSE   AND  THE  BRAIN.  35 

"  I  would  say  this :  that  I  am  convinced,  if  we  could 
get  to  the  bottom  of  these  mysteries,  we  should  find  a 
living,  human  agency." 

"  What !  you  believe  it  is  all  an  imposture  P  For 
what  object?" 

"Not  an  imposture,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the 
word.  If  suddenly  I  were  to  sink  into  a  deep  sleep, 
from  which  you  could  not  awake  me,  but  in  that 
deep  sleep  could  answer  questions  with  an  accuracy 
which  I  could  not  pretend  to  when  awake,  —  tell  you  what 
money  you  had  in  your  pocket,  nay,  describe  your  very 
thoughts,  —  it  is  not  necessarily  an  imposture,  any  more 
than  it  is  necessarily  supernatural.  I  should  be,  uncon- 
sciously to  myself,  under  a  mesmeric  influence,  conveyed 
to  me  from  a  distance  by  a  human  being  who  had 
acquired  power  over  me  by  previous  rapport." 

"  Granting  mesmerism,  so  far  carried,  to  be  a  fact, 
you  are  right.  And  you  would  infer  from  this  that  a 
mesmerizer  might  produce  the  extraordinary  effects  you 
and  others  have  witnessed  over  inanimate  objects,  —  fill 
the  air  with  sights  and  sounds  ? " 

"  Or  impress  our  senses  with  the  belief  in  them,  we 
never  having  been  en  rapport  with  the  person  acting  on 
us  ?  No.  What  is  commonly  called  mesmerism  could 
not  do  this ;  but  there  may  be  a  power  akin  to  mes- 
merism, and  superior  to  it, — the  power  that  in  the  old 
days  was  called  Magic.  That  such  a  power  may  extend 
to  all  inanimate  objects  of  matter,  I  do  not  say ;  but  if 
so,  it  would  not  be  against  nature,  only  a  rare  power 
in  nature,  which  might  be  given  to  constitutions  with 
certain  peculiarities,  and  cultivated  by  practice  to  an 


86  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

extraordinary  degree.  That  such  a  power  might  extend 
over  the  dead,  —  that  is,  over  certain  thoughts  and 
memories  that  the  dead  may  still  retain,  —  and  compel, 
not  that  which  ought  properly  to  be  called  the  SOUL,  and 
which  is  far  beyond  human  reach,  but  rather  a  phantom 
of  what  has  been  most  earth-stained  on  earth,  to  make 
itself  apparent  to  our  senses,  —  is  a  very  ancient  though 
obsolete  theory,  upon  which  I  will  hazard  no  opinion. 
But  I  do  not  conceive  the  power  would  be  supernatural. 
Let  me  illustrate  what  I  mean,  from  an  experiment 
which  Paracelsus  describes  as  not  difficult,  and  which 
the  author  of  the  '  Curiosities  of  Literature '  cites  as 
credible:  A  flower  perishes;  you  burn  it.  Whatever 
were  the  elements  of  that  flower  while  it  lived  are  gone, 
dispersed,  you  know  not  whither;  you  can  never  dis- 
cover nor  re-collect  them.  But  you  can,  by  chemistry, 
out  of  the  burnt  dust  of  that  flower,  raise  a  spectrum  of 
the  flower,  just  as  it  seemed  in  life.  It  may  be  the  same 
with  a  human  being.  The  soul  has  as  much  escaped 
you  as  the  essence  or  elements  of  the  flower.  Still  you 
may  make  a  spectrum  of  it.  And  this  phantom,  though 
in  the  popular  superstition  it  is  held  to  be  the  soul  of 
the  departed,  must  not  be  confounded  with  the  true 
soul ;  it  is  but  the  eidolon  of  the  dead  form.  Hence, 
like  the  best-attested  stories  of  ghosts  or  spirits,  the 
thing  that  most  strikes  us  is  the  absence  of  what  we  hold 
to  be  soul,  —  that  is,  of  superior,  emancipated  intelli- 
gence. They  come  for  little  or  no  object;  they  seldom 
speak,  if  they  do  come  ;  they  utter  no  ideas  above  those 
of  an  ordinary  person  on  earth.  These  American  spirit- 
seers  have  published  volumes  of  communications  in  prose 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN.       37 

and  verse,  which  they  assert  to  be  given  in  the  names  of 
the  most  illustrious  dead,  —  Shakespeare,  Bacon,  Heaven 
knows  whom.  Those  communications,  taking  the  best, 
are  certainly  of  not  a  whit  higher  order  than  would  be 
communications  from  living  persons  of  fair  talent  and 
education ;  they  are  wondrously  inferior  to  what  Bacon, 
Shakespeare,  and  Plato  said  and  wrote  when  on  earth. 
Nor,  what  is  more  notable,  do  they  ever  contain  an  idea 
that  was  not  on  the  earth  before.  Wonderful,  therefore, 
as  such  phenomena  may  be  (granting  them  to  be  truth- 
ful), I  see  much  that  philosophy  may  question,  nothing 
that  it  is  incumbent  on  philosophy  to  deny,  namely,  noth- 
ing supernatural.  They  are  but  ideas  conveyed  some- 
how or  other  (we  have  not  yet  discovered  the  means) 
from  one  mortal  brain  to  another.  Whether  in  so  doing 
tables  walk  of  their  own  accord,  or  fiend-like  shapes 
appear  in  a  magic  circle,  or  bodiless  hands  rise  and 
remove  material  objects,  or  a  thing  of  darkness,  such  as 
presented  itself  to  me,  freeze  our  blood,  —  still  am  I 
persuaded  that  these  are  but  agencies  conveyed,  as  by 
electric  wires,  to  my  own  brain  from  the  brain  of  another. 
In  some  constitutions  there  is  a  natural  chemistry,  and 
those  may  produce  chemic  wonders ;  in  others  a  natural 
fluid,  call  it  electricity,  and  these  produce  electric  won- 
ders. But  they  differ  in  this  from  normal  science :  they 
are  alike  objectless,  purposeless,  puerile,  frivolous.  They 
lead  on  to  no  grand  results,  and  therefore  the  world  does 
not  heed,  and  true  sages  have  not  cultivated  them.  But 
sure  I  am,  that  of  all  I  saw  or  heard,  a  man,  human  as 
myself,  was  the  remote  originator;  and,  I  believe,  un- 
consciously to  himself  as  to  the  exact  effects  produced, 


38  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

for  this  reason  :  no  two  persons,  you  say,  have  ever  told 
you  that  they  experienced  exactly  the  same  thing ;  well, 
observe,  no  two  persons  ever  experience  exactly  the 
same  dream.  If  this  were  an  ordinary  imposture,  the 
machinery  would  be  arranged  for  results  that  would  but 
little  vary ;  if  it  were  a  supernatural  agency  permitted 
by  the  Almighty,  it  would  surely  be  for  some  definite 
end.  These  phenomena  belong  to  neither  class.  My 
persuasion  is,  that  they  originate  in  some  brain  now  far 
distant ;  that  that  brain  had  no  distinct  volition  in  any- 
thing that  occurred ;  that  what  does  occur  reflects  but 
its  devious,  motley,  ever-shifting,  half-formed  thoughts ; 
in  short,  that  it  has  been  but  the  dreams  of  such  a  brain 
put  into  action  and  invested  with  a  semi-substance.  That 
this  brain  is  of  immense  power,  that  it  can  set  matter 
into  movement,  that  it  is  malignant  and  destructive,  I 
believe.  Some  material  force  must  have  killed  my  dog ; 
it  might,  for  aught  I  know,  have  sufficed  to  kill  myself, 
had  I  been  as  subjugated  by  terror  as  the  dog,  —  had  my 
intellect  or  my  spirit  given  me  no  countervailing  resist- 
ance in  my  will." 

"  It  killed  your  dog !  that  is  fearful !  Indeed,  it  is 
strange  that  no  animal  can  be  induced  to  stay  in  that 
house  ;  not  even  a  cat.  Rats  and  mice  are  never  found 
in  it." 

"  The  instincts  of  the  brute  creation  detect  influences 
deadly  to  their  existence.  Man's  reason  has  a  sense  less 
subtle,  because  it  has  a  resisting  power  more  supreme. 
But  enough;  do  you  comprehend  my  theory?" 

"  Yes,  though  imperfectly ;  and  I  accept  any  crotchet 
(pardon  the  word),  however  odd,  rather  than  embrace  at 


THE    HOUSE   AND   THE    BRAIN.  39 

once  the  notion  of  ghosts  and  hobgoblins  we  imbibed  in 
our  nurseries.  Still,  to  my  unfortunate  house  the  evil  is 
the  same.  What  on  earth  can  I  do  with  the  house  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  would  do.  I  am  convinced 
from  my  own  internal  feelings  that  the  small  unfurnished 
room,  at  right  angles  to  the  door  of  the  bedroom  which  I 
occupied,  forms  a  starting-point  or  receptacle  for  the 
influences  which  haunt  the  house ;  and  I  strongly  advise 
you  to  have  the  walls  opened,  the  floor  removed,  nay, 
the  whole  room  pulled  down.  I  observe  that  it  is 
detached  from  the  body  of  the  house,  built  over  the 
small  back  yard,  and  could  be  removed  without  injury  to 
the  rest  of  the  building." 

"  And  you  think  if  I  did  that  —  " 

"  You  would  cut  off  the  telegraph-wires.  Try  it.  I 
am  so  persuaded  that  I  am  right,  that  I  will  pay  half  the 
expense,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  direct  the  operations." 

"  Nay,  I  am  well  able  to  afford  the  cost ;  for  the  rest, 
allow  me  to  write  to  you." 

About  ten  days  afterwards  I  received  a  letter  from 

Mr.  J ,  telling  me  that  he  had  visited  the  house  since 

I  had  seen  him ;  that  he  had  found  the  two  letters  I  had 
described  replaced  in  the  drawer  from  which  I  had  taken 
them;  that  he  had  read  them  with  misgivings  like  my 
own ;  that  he  had  instituted  a  cautious  inquiry  about  the 
woman  to  whom  I  rightly  conjectured  they  had  been 
written.  It  seemed  that  thirty-six  years  ago  (a  year 
before  the  date  of  the  letters)  she  had  married,  against 
the  wish  of  her  relatives,  an  American  of  very  suspicious 
character;  in  fact,  he  was  generally  believed  to  have 
been  a  pirate.  She  herself  was  the  daughter  of  very 


40  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

respectable  tradespeople,  and  had  served  in  the  capacity 
of  nursery  governess  before  her  marriage.  She  had  a 
brother,  a  widower,  who  was  considered  wealthy,  and 
who  had  one  child  about  six  years  old.  A  month  after 
the  marriage,  the  body  of  this  brother  was  found  in  the 
Thames,  near  London  Bridge ;  there  seemed  some  marks 
of  violence  about  his  throat,  but  they  were  not  deemed 
sufficient  to  warrant  the  inquest  in  any  other  verdict  than 
that  of  "  found  drowned." 

The  American  and  his  wife  took  charge  of  the  little  boy, 
the  deceased  brother  having  by  his  will  left  his  sister  the 
guardian  of  his  only  child,  and  in  event  of  the  child's  death 
the  sister  inherited.  The  child  died  about  six  months 
afterward ;  it  was  supposed  to  have  been  neglected  and 
ill-treated.  The  neighbors  deposed  to  have  heard  it 
shriek  at  night.  The  surgeon  who  had  examined  it  after 
death  said  that  it  was  emaciated  as  if  from  want  of 
nourishment,  and  the  body  was  covered  with  livid  bruises. 
It  seemed  that  one  winter  night  the  child  had  sought  to 
escape ;  had  crept  out  into  the  back  yard,  tried  to  scale  the 
wall,  fallen  back  exhausted,  and  had  been  found  at  morn- 
ing on  the  stones  in  a  dying  state.  But  though  there 
was  some  evidence  of  cruelty,  there  was  none  of  murder ; 
and  the  aunt  and  her  husband  had  sought  to  palliate 
cruelty  by  alleging  the  exceeding  stubbornness  and  per- 
versity of  the  child,  who  was  declared  to  be  half-witted. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  at  the  orphan's  death  the  aunt  inher- 
ited her  brother's  fortune.  Before  the  first  wedded  year 
was  out,  the  American  quitted  England  abruptly,  and 
never  returned  to  it.  He  obtained  a  cruising  vessel, 
which  was  lost  in  the  Atlantic  two  years  afterwards. 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN.       41 

The  widow  was  left  in  affluence ;  but  reverses  of  various 
kinds  had  befallen  her;  a  bank  broke,  an  investment 
failed,  she  went  into  a  small  business  and  became  insol- 
vent, then  she  entered  into  service,  sinking  lower  and 
lower,  from  housekeeper  down  to  maid-of-all-work,  never 
long  retaining  a  place,  though  nothing  peculiar  against 
her  character  was  ever  alleged.  She  was  considered 
sober,  honest,  and  peculiarly  quiet  in  her  ways;  still 
nothing  prospered  with  her.  And  so  she  had  dropped 

into  the  workhouse,  from  which  Mr.  J had  taken 

her,  to  be  placed  in  charge  of  the  very  house  which  she 
had  rented  as  mistress  in  the  first  year  of  her  wedded 
life. 

Mr.  J added,  that  he  had  passed  an  hour  alone  in 

the  unfurnished  room  which  I  had  urged  him  to  destroy, 
and  that  his  impressions  of  dread  while  there  were  so 
great,  though  he  had  neither  heard  nor  seen  anything, 
that  he  was  eager  to  have  the  walls  bared  and  the  floors 
removed,  as  I  had  suggested.  He  had  engaged  persons 
for  the  work,  and  would  commence  any  day  I  would 
name. 

The  day  was  accordingly  fixed.  I  repaired  to  the 
haunted  house ;  we  went  into  the  blind,  dreary  room,  took 
up  the  skirting,  and  then  the  floors.  Under  the  rafters, 
covered  with  rubbish,  was  found  a  trap-door,  quite  large 
enough  to  admit  a  man.  It  was  closely  nailed  down 
with  clamps  and  rivets  of  iron.  On  removing  these  we 
descended  into  a  room  below,  the  existence  of  which  had 
never  been  suspected.  In  this  room  there  had  been  a 
window  and  a  flue,  but  they  had  been  bricked  over, 
evidently  for  many  years.  By  the  help  of  candles  we 


42  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

examined  this  place;  it  still  retained  some  mouldering 
furniture,  — three  chairs,  an  oak  settee,  a  table,  —  all  of 
the  fashion  of  about  eighty  years  ago.  There  was  a 
chest  of  drawers  against  the  wall,  in  which  we  found,  half 
rotted  away,  old-fashioned  articles  of  a  man's  dress,  such 
as  might  have  been  worn  eighty  or  a  hundred  years  ago, 
by  a  gentleman  of  some  rank ;  costly  steel  buckles  and 
buttons,  like  those  yet  worn  in  court-dresses,  a  handsome 
court-sword;  in  a  waistcoat  which  had  once  been  rich 
with  gold-lace,  but  which  was  now  blackened  and  foul 
with  damp,  we  found  five  guineas,  a  few  silver  coins, 
and  an  ivory  ticket,  probably  for  some  place  of  entertain- 
ment long  since  passed  away.  But  our  main  discovery 
was  in  a  kind  of  iron  safe  fixed  to  the  wall,  the  lock  of 
which  it  cost  us  much  trouble  to  get  picked. 

In  this  safe  were  three  shelves  and  two  small  drawers. 
Ranged  on  the  shelves  were  several  small  bottles  of  crys- 
tal, hermetically  stopped.  They  contained  colorless  vola- 
tile essences,  of  what  nature  I  shall  say  no  more  than  that 
they  were  not  poisons  ;  phosphor  and  ammonia  entered 
into  some  of  them.  There  were  also  some  very  curious 
glass  tubes,  and  a  small  pointed  rod  of  iron,  with  a  large 
lump  of  rock-crystal,  and  another  of  amber,  also  a  load- 
stone of  great  power. 

In  one  of  the  drawers  we  found  a  miniature  portrait 
set  in  gold,  and  retaining  the  freshness  of  its  colors  most 
remarkably,  considering  the  length  of  time  it  had  proba- 
bly been  there.  The  portrait  was  that  of  a  man  who 
might  be  somewhat  advanced  in  middle  life,  perhaps 
forty-seven  or  forty-eight. 

It  was  a  most  peculiar  face,  a  most  impressive  face. 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN.       43 

If  you  could  fancy  some  mighty  serpent  transformed  into 
man,  preserving  in  the  human  lineaments  the  old  serpent 
type,  you  would  have  a  better  idea  of  that  countenance 
than  long  descriptions  can  convey;  the  width  and  flatness 
of  frontal,  the  tapering  elegance  of  contour,  disguising 
the  strength  of  the  deadly  jaw ;  the  long,  large,  terrible 
eye,  glittering  and  green  as  the  emerald,  and  withal  a 
certain  ruthless  calm,  as  if  from  the  consciousness  of  an 
immense  power.  The  strange  thing  was  this :  the  instant 
I  saw  the  miniature  I  recognized  a  startling  likeness  to 
one  of  the  rarest  portraits  in  the  world ;  the  portrait  of  a 
man  of  rank  only  below  that  of  royalty,  who  in  his  own. 
day  had  made  a  considerable  noise.  History  says  little 
or  nothing  of  him ;  but  search  the  correspondence  of  his 
contemporaries,  and  you  find  reference  to  his  wild  daring, 
his  bold  profligacy,  his  restless  spirit,  his  taste  for  the 
occult  sciences.  While  still  in  the  meridian  of  life  he 
died  and  was  buried,  so  say  the  chronicles,  in  a  foreign 
land.  He  died  in  time  to  escape  the  grasp  of  the  law ; 
for  he  was  accused  of  crimes  which  would  have  given 
him  to  the  headsman.  After  his  death,  the  portraits  of 
him,  which  had  been  numerous,  for  he  had  been  a  mu- 
nificent encourager  of  art,  were  bought  up  and  destroyed, 
it  was  supposed  by  his  heirs,  who  might  have  been  glad 
could  they  have  razed  his  very  name  from  their  splendid 
line.  He  had  enjoyed  vast  wealth ;  a  large  portion  of 
this  was  believed  to  have  been  embezzled  by  a  favorite 
astrologer  or  soothsayer;  at  all  events,  it  had  unac- 
countably vanished  at  the  time  of  his  death.  One  por- 
trait alone  of  him  was  supposed  to  have  escaped  the 
general  destruction ;  I  had  seen  it  in  the  house  of  a  col- 


44  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

lector  some  months  before.  It  had  made  on  me  a  won- 
derful impression,  as  it  does  on  all  who  behold  it ;  a  face 
never  to  be  forgotten ;  and  there  was  that  face  in  the 
miniature  that  lay  within  my  hand.  True,  that  in  the 
miniature  the  man  was  a  few  years  older  than  in  the  por- 
trait I  had  seen,  or  than  the  original  was  even  at  the 
time  of  his  death.  But  a  few  years  !  —  why,  between  the 
date  in  which  flourished  that  direful  noble,  and  the  date 
in  which  the  miniature  was  evidently  painted,  there  was 
an  interval  of  more  than  two  centuries.  While  I  was 
thus  gazing,  silent  and  wondering,  Mr.  J said,  — 

"  But  is  it  possible  P     I  have  known  this  man." 

"  How  ?  where  ?  "  cried  I. 

"In  India.  He  was  high  in  the  confidence  of  the 

Rajah  of  ,  and  wellnigh  drew  him  into  a  revolt 

which  would  have  lost  the  Rajah  his  dominions.  The 

man  was  a  Frenchman,  his  name  De  V ;  clever,  bold, 

lawless.  We  insisted  on  his  dismissal  and  banishment ; 
it  must  be  the  same  man,  no  two  faces  like  his,  yet  this 
miniature  seems  nearly  a  hundred  years  old." 

Mechanically  I  turned  round  the  miniature  to  examine 
the  back  of  it,  and  on  the  back  was  engraved  a  pentacle ; 
in  the  middle  of  the  pentacle  a  ladder,  and  the  third  step 
of  the  ladder  was  formed  by  the  date  1765.  Examining 
still  more  minutely,  I  detected  a  spring ;  this,  on  being 
pressed,  opened  the  back  of  the  miniature  as  a  lid. 
Within-side  the  lid  were  engraved,  "Mariana,  to  thee. 

Be  faithful  in  life  and  in  death  to ."  Here  follows 

a  name  that  I  will  not  mention,  but  it  was  not  unfamiliar 
to  me.  I  had  heard  it  spoken  of  by  old  men  in  my  child- 
hood as  the  name  borne  by  a  dazzling  charlatan,  who 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN.       45 

had  made  a  great  sensation  in  London  for  a  year  or  so, 
and  had  fled  the  country  on  the  charge  of  a  double  mur- 
der within  his  own  house,  —  that  of  his  mistress  and  his 

rival.     I  said  nothing  of  this  to  Mr.  J ,  to  whom 

reluctantly  I  resigned  the  miniature. 

We  had  found  no  difficulty  in  opening  the  first  drawer 
within  the  iron  safe ;  we  found  great  difficulty  in  opening 
the  second :  it  was  not  locked,  but  it  resisted  all  efforts, 
till  we  inserted  in  the  chinks  the  edge  of  a  chisel.  When 
we  had  thus  drawn  it  forth,  we  found  a  very  singular 
apparatus,  in  the  nicest  order.  Upon  a  small,  tliin  book, 
or  rather  tablet,  was  placed  a  saucer  of  crystal ;  this 
saucer  was  filled  with  a  clear  liquid;  on  that  liquid 
floated  a  kind  of  compass,  with  a  needle  shifting  rapidly 
round ;  but  instead  of  the  usual  points  of  a  compass,  were 
seven  strange  characters,  not  very  unlike  those  used  by 
astrologers  to  denote  the  planets.  A  very  peculiar,  but 
not  strong  nor  displeasing  odor  came  from  this  drawer, 
which  was  lined  with  a  wood  that  we  afterward  dis- 
covered to  be  hazel.  Whatever  the  cause  of  this  odor, 
it  produced  a  material  effect  on  the  nerves.  We  all  felt 
it,  even  the  two  workmen  who  were  in  the  room;  a 
creeping,  tingling  sensation,  from  the  tips  of  the  fingers 
to  the  roots  of  the  hair.  Impatient  to  examine  the  tab- 
let, I  removed  the  saucer.  As  I  did  so,  the  needle  of 
the  compass  went  round  and  round  with  exceeding  swift- 
ness, and  I  felt  a  shock  that  ran  through  my  whole  frame, 
BO  that  I  dropped  the  saucer  on  the  floor.  The  liquid 
was  spilt,  the  saucer  was  broken,  the  compass  rolled  to 
the  end  of  the  room,  and  at  that  instant  the  walls  shook 
to  and  fro  as  if  a  giant  had  swayed  and  rocked  them. 


46  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

The  two  workmen  were  so  frightened  that  they  ran  up 
the  ladder  by  which  we  had  descended  from  the  trap- 
door; but,  seeing  that  nothing  more  happened,  they 
were  easily  induced  to  return. 

Meanwhile,  I  had  opened  the  tablet ;  it  was  bound  in 
plain  red  leather,  with  a  silver  clasp ;  it  contained  but 
one  sheet  of  thick  vellum,  and  on  that  sheet  were  in- 
scribed, within  a  double  pentacle,  words  in  old  monkish 
Latin,  which  are  literally  to  be  translated  thus :  "  On 
all  that  it  can  reach  within  these  walls,  sentient  or  inani- 
mate, living  or  dead,  as  moves  the  needle,  so  works  my 
will !  Accursed  be  the  house,  and  restless  the  dwellers 
therein." 

We  found  no  more.  Mr.  J burnt  the  tablet  and 

its  anathema.  He  razed  to  the  foundation  the  part  of 
the  building  containing  the  secret  room,  with  the  cham- 
ber over  it.  He  had  then  the  courage  to  inhabit  the 
house  himself  for  a  month,  and  a  quieter,  better  con- 
ditioned house  could  not  be  found  in  all  London.  Sub- 
sequently he  let  it  to  advantage,  and  his  tenant  has  made 
no  complaints. 

But  my  story  is  not  yet  done.  A  few  days  after  Mr. 

J had  removed  into  the  house,  I  paid  him  a  visit. 

We  were  standing  by  the  open  window  and  conversing. 
A  van  containing  some  articles  of  furniture  which  he  was 
moving  from  his  former  house  was  at  the  door.  I  had 
just  urged  on  him  my  theory,  that  all  those  phenomena 
regarded  as  supermundane  had  emanated  from  a  human 
brain ;  adducing  the  charm,  or  rather  curse,  we  had  found 

and  destroyed,  in  support  of  my  theory.  Mr.  J was 

observing  in  reply,  "that  even  if  mesmerism,  or  what- 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN.       47 

ever  analogous  power  it  might  be  called,  could  really 
thus  work  in  the  absence  of  the  operator,  and  produce 
effects  so  extraordinary,  still  could  those  effects  continue 
•when  the  operator  himself  was  dead?  and  if  the  spell 
had  been  wrought,  and,  indeed,  the  room  walled  up, 
more  than  seventy  years  ago,  the  probability  was,  that 
the  operator  had  long  since  departed  this  life,"  —  Mr. 

J ,  I  say,  was  thus  answering,  when  I  caught  hold 

of  his  arm  and  pointed  to  the  street  below. 

A  well-dressed  man  had  crossed  from  the  opposite  side, 
and  was  accosting  the  carrier  in  charge  of  the  van.  His 
face,  as  he  stood,  was  exactly  fronting  our  window.  It 
was  the  face  of  the  miniature  we  had  discovered ;  it  was 
the  face  of  the  portrait  of  the  noble  three  centuries  ago. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  cried  Mr.  J ,  "  that  is  the  face 

of  De  V ,  and  scarcely  a  day  older  than  when  I  saw 

it  in  the  Rajah's  court  in  my  youth ! " 

Seized  by  the  same  thought,  we  both  hastened  down 
stairs ;  I  was  first  in  the  street,  but  the  man  had  already 
gone.  I  caught  sight  of  him,  however,  not  many  yards 
in  advance,  and  in  another  moment  I  was  by  bis  side. 

I  had  resolved  to  speak  to  him ;  but  when  I  looked 
into  his  face,  I  felt  as  if  it  were  impossible  to  do  so. 
That  eye  —  the  eye  of  the  serpent  —  fixed  and  held  me 
spellbound.  And  withal,  about  the  man's  whole  person 
there  was  a  dignity,  an  air  of  pride  and  station  and 
superiority,  that  would  have  made  any  one,  habituated 
to  the  usages  of  the  world,  hesitate  long  before  venturing 
upon  a  liberty  or  impertinence.  And  what  could  I  say  ? 
What  was  it  I  could  ask  ?  Thus  ashamed  of  my  first 
impulse,  I  fell  a  few  paces  back,  still,  however,  following 


48  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

the  stranger,  undecided  what  else  to  do.  Meanwhile,  he 
turned  the  corner  of  the  street ;  a  plain  carriage  was  in 
waiting  with  a  servant  out  of  livery,  dressed  like  a  valet 
de  place,  at  the  carriage  door.  In  another  moment  he 
had  stepped  into  the  carriage,  and  it  drove  off.  I  re- 
turned to  the  house.  Mr.  J was  still  at  the  street 

door.  He  had  asked  the  carrier  what  the  stranger  had 
said  to  him. 

"  Merely  asked  whom  that  house  now  belonged  to." 

The  same  evening  I  happened  to  go  with  a  friend  to  a 
place  in  town  called  the  Cosmopolitan  Club,  a  place  open 
to  men  of  all  countries,  all  opinions,  all  degrees.  One 
orders  one's  coffee,  smokes  one's  cigar.  One  is  always 
sure  to  meet  agreeable,  sometimes  remarkable  persons. 

I  had  not  been  two  minutes  in  the  room  before  I 
beheld  at  table,  conversing  with  an  acquaintance  of 

mine,  whom  I  will  designate  by  the  initial  G ,  the 

man,  the  original  of  the  miniature.  He  was  now  without 
his  hat,  and  the  likeness  was  yet  more  startling,  only  I 
observed  that  while  he  was  conversing,  there  was  less 
severity  in  the  countenance;  there  was  even  a  smile, 
though  a  very  quiet  and  very  cold  one.  The  dignity  of 
mien  I  had  acknowledged  in  the  street  was  also  more 
striking;  a  dignity  akin  to  that  which  invests  some 
prince  of  the  East,  conveying  the  idea  of  supreme  in- 
difference and  habitual,  indisputable,  indolent,  but  resist- 
less power. 

G soon  after  left  the  stranger,  who  then  took  up 

a  scientific  journal,  which  seemed  to  absorb  his  attention. 

I  drew  G aside.  "  Who  and  what  is  that  gentle* 

man?" 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN.       49 

"  That  ?  Oh,  a  very  remarkable  man  indeed !  1  met 
him  last  year  amidst  the  caves  of  Petra,  the  Scriptural 
Edom.  He  is  the  best  Oriental  scholar  I  know.  We 
joined  company,  had  an  adventure  with  robbers,  in 
which  he  showed  a  coolness  that  saved  our  lives ;  after- 
ward he  invited  me  to  spend  a  day  with  him  in  a  house 
he  had  bought  at  Damascus,  a  house  buried  amongst 
almond-blossoms  and  roses ;  the  most  beautiful  thing ! 
He  had  lived  there  for  some  years,  quite  as  an  Oriental, 
in  grand  style.  I  half  suspect  he  is  a  renegade,  im- 
mensely rich,  very  odd ;  by  the  by,  a  great  mesmerizer. 
I  have  seen  him  with  my  own  eyes  produce  an  effect  on 
inanimate  things.  If  you  take  a  letter  from  your  pocket 
and  throw  it  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  he  will  order 
it  to  come  to  his  feet,  and  you  will  see  the  letter  wriggle 
itself  along  the  floor  till  it  has  obeyed  his  command. 
'Pon  my  honor  't  is  true ;  I  have  seen  him  affect  even 
the  weather ;  disperse  or  collect  clouds,  by  means  of  a 
glass  tube  or  wand.  But  he  does  not  like  talking  of 
these  matters  to  strangers.  He  has  only  just  arrived  in 
England;  says  he  has  not  been  here  for  a  great  many 
years ;  let  me  introduce  him  to  you." 

"Certainly!    He  is  English,  then  ?  What  is  his  name  ?" 

"  Oh !  a  very  homely  one,  —  Richards." 

"  And  what  is  his  birth,  —  his  family  ?  " 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  What  does  it  signify  ?  No  doubt 
some  parvenu  ;  but  rich,  so  infernally  rich  !  " 

G drew  me  up  to  the  stranger,  and  the  introduc- 
tion was  effected.  The  manners  of  Mr.  Richards  were 
not  those  of  an  adventurous  traveller.  Travellers  are  in 
general  gifted  with  high  animal  spirits ;  they  are  talka- 


50  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

tive,  eager,  imperious.  Mr.  Richards  was  calm  and 
subdued  in  tone,  with  manners  which  were  made  distant 
by  the  loftiness  of  punctilious  courtesy,  the  manners  of  a 
former  age.  I  observed  that  the  English  he  spoke  was  not 
exactly  of  our  day.  I  should  even  have  said  that  the  ac- 
cent was  slightly  foreign.  But  then  Mr.  Richards  remarked 
that  he  had  been  little  in  the  habit  for  many  years  of  speak- 
ing in  his  native  tongue.  The  conversation  fell  upon  the 
changes  in  the  aspect  of  London  since  he  had  last  visited 

our  metropolis.  G then  glanced  off  to  the  moral 

changes, — literary,  social,  political, — the  great  men  who 
were  removed  from  the  stage  within  the  last  twenty 
years ;  the  new  great  men  who  were  coming  on.  In  all 
this  Mr.  Richards  evinced  no  interest.  He  had  evidently 
read  none  of  our  living  authors,  and  seemed  scarcely 
acquainted  by  name  with  our  younger  statesmen.  Once, 

and  only  once,  he  laughed;  it  was  when  G asked 

him  whether  he  had  any  thoughts  of  getting  into  Parlia- 
ment. And  the  laugh  was  inward,  sarcastic,  sinister ;  a 

sneer  raised  into  a  laugh.  After  a  few  minutes,  G 

left  us  to  talk  to  some  other  acquaintances  who  had  just 
lounged  into  the  room,  and  I  then  said,  quietly,  — 

"  I  have  seen  a  miniature  of  you,  Mr.  Richards,  in  the 
house  you  once  inhabited,  and  perhaps  built,  —  if  not 
wholly,  at  least  in  part,  —  in  Oxford  Street.  You  passed 
by  that  house  this  morning." 

Not  till  I  had  finished  did  I  raise  my  eyes  to  his, 
and  then  his  fixed  my  gaze  so  steadfastly  that  I  could 
not  withdraw  it, — those  fascinating  serpent-eyes.  But 
involuntarily,  and  as  if  the  words  that  translated  my 
thought  were  dragged  from  me,  I  added  in  a  low  whis- 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN.       51 

per,  "  I  have  been  a  student  in  the  mysteries  of  life  and 
nature;  of  those  mysteries  I  have  known  the  occult 
professors.  I  have  the  right  to  speak  to  you  thus." 
And  I  uttered  a  certain  password. 

"  Well,  I  concede  the  right.     What  would  you  ask  ?  " 

"  To  what  extent  human  will  in  certain  temperaments 
can  extend  ?  " 

"  To  what  extent  can  thought  extend  ?  Think,  and 
before  you  draw  breath  you  are  in  China ! " 

"  True ;  but  my  thought  has  no  power  in  China !  " 

"Give  it  expression,  and  it  may  have.  You  may 
write  down  a  thought  which,  sooner  or  later,  may  alter 
the  whole  condition  of  China.  What  is  a  law  but  a 
thought  ?  Therefore  thought  is  infinite.  Therefore 
thought  has  power ;  not  in  proportion  to  its  value,  —  a 
bad  thought  may  make  a  bad  law  as  potent  as  a  good 
thought  can  make  a  good  one." 

"  Yes ;  what  you  say  confirms  my  own  theory.  Through 
invisible  currents  one  human  brain  may  transmit  its 
ideas  to  other  human  brains,  with  the  same  rapidity  as  a 
thought  promulgated  by  visible  means.  And  as  thought 
is  imperishable,  as  it  leaves  its  stamp  behind  it  in  the 
natural  world,  even  when  the  thinker  has  passed  out  of 
this  world,  so  the  thought  of  the  living  may  have  power 
to  rouse  up  and  revive  the  thoughts  of  the  dead,  such  as 
those  thoughts  were  in  life,  though  the  thought  of  the 
living  cannot  reach  the  thoughts  which  the  dead  now 
may  entertain.  Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"  I  decline  to  answer,  if  in  my  judgment  thought  has 
the  limit  you  would  fix  to  it.  But  proceed-,  you  have  a 
special  question  you  wish  to  put," 


52  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  Intense  malignity  in  an  intense  will,  engendered  in  a 
peculiar  temperament,  and  aided  by  natural  means  within 
the  reach  of  science,  may  produce  effects  like  those 
ascribed  of  old  to  evil  magic.  It  might  thus  haunt  the 
walls  of  a  human  habitation  with  spectral  revivals  of  all 
guilty  thoughts  and  guilty  deeds  once  conceived  and 
done  within  those  walls;  all,  in  short,  with  which  the 
evil  will  claims  rapport  and  affinity,  —  imperfect,  incohe- 
rent, fragmentary  snatches  at  the  old  dramas  acted  there- 
in years  ago.  Thoughts  thus  crossing  each  other  hap- 
hazard, as  in  the  nightmare  of  a  vision,  growing  up  into 
phantom  sights  and  sounds,  and  all  serving  to  create 
horror ;  not  because  those  sights  and  sounds  are  really 
visitations  from  a  world  without,  but  that  they  are 
ghastly,  monstrous  renewals  of  what  have  been  in  this 
world  itself,  set  into  malignant  play  by  a  malignant  mor- 
tal. And  it  is  through  the  material  agency  of  that 
human  brain  that  these  things  would  acquire  even  a 
human  power ;  would  strike  as  with  the  shock  of  elec- 
tricity, and  might  kill,  if  the  thought  of  the  person 
assailed  did  not  rise  superior  to  the  dignity  of  the  origi- 
nal assailer;  might  kill  the  most  powerful  animal,  if 
unnerved  by  fear,  but  not  injure  the  feeblest  man,  if, 
while  his  flesh  crept,  his  mind  stood  out  fearless.  Thus 
when  in  old  stories  we  read  of  a  magician  rent  to  pieces 
by  the  fiends  he  had  invoked,  or  still  more,  in  Eastern 
legends,  that  one  magician  succeeds  by  arts  in  destroy- 
ing another,  there  may  be  so  far  truth,  that  a  material 
being  has  clothed,  from  his  own  evil  propensities,  certain 
elements  and  fluids,  usually  quiescent  or  harmless,  with 
awful  shapes  and  terrific  force ;  just  as  the  lightning,  that 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN.       53 

had  lain  hidden  and  innocent  in  the  cloud,  becomes  by 
natural  law  suddenly  visible,  takes  a  distinct  shape  to 
the  eye,  and  can  strike  destruction  on  the  object  to 
which  it  is  attracted." 

"  Yon  are  not  without  glimpses  of  a  mighty  secret," 
said  Mr.  Richards,  composedly.  "  According  to  your 
view,  could  a  mortal  obtain  the  power  you  speak  of,  he 
would  necessarily  be  a  malignant  and  evil  being." 

"  If  the  power  were  exercised,  as  I  have  said,  most 
malignant  and  most  evil ;  though  I  believe  in  the  ancient 
traditions,  that  he  could  not  injure  the  good.  His  will 
could  only  injure  those  with  whom  it  has  established  an 
affinity,  or  over  whom  it  forces  unresisted  sway.  I  will 
now  imagine  an  example  that  may  be  within  the  laws  of 
nature,  yet  seem  wild  as  the  fables  of  a  bewildered  monk. 

"  You  will  remember  that  Albertus  Magnus,  after 
describing  minutely  the  process  by  which  spirits  may  be 
invoked  and  commanded,  adds  emphatically,  that  the 
process  will  instruct  and  avail  only  to  the  few ;  that  a 
man  must  be  born  a  magician !  that  is,  born  with  a 
peculiar  physical  temperament,  as  a  man  is  born  a  poet. 
Rarely  are  men  in  whose  constitution  lurks  this  occult 
power  of  the  highest  order  of  intellect ;  usually  in  the 
intellect  there  is  some  twist,  perversity,  or  disease.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  they  must  possess,  to  an  astonishing 
degree,  the  faculty  to  concentrate  thought  on  a  single 
object,  —  the  energic  faculty  that  we  call  WILL.  There- 
fore, though  their  intellect  be  not  sound,  it  is  exceed- 
ingly forcible  for  the  attainment  of  what  it  desires.  I 
will  imagine  such  a  person,  pre-eminently  gifted  with 
this  constitution  and  its  concomitant  forces.  I  will 


54  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

place  him  in  the  loftier  grades  of  society.  I  will  sup- 
pose his  desires  emphatically  those  of  the  sensualist; 
he  has,  therefore,  a  strong  love  of  life.  He  is  an  abso- 
lute egotist;  his  will  is  concentred  in  himself;  he  has 
fierce  passions;  he  knows  no  enduring,  no  holy  affec- 
tions, but  he  can  covet  eagerly  what  for  the  moment  he 
desires ;  he  can  hate  implacably  what  opposes  itself  to 
his  objects  ;  he  can  commit  fearful  crimes,  yet  feel  small 
remorse ;  he  resorts  rather  to  curses  upon  others,  than 
to  penitence  for  his  misdeeds.  Circumstances,  to  which 
his  constitution  guides  him,  lead  him  to  a  rare  knowl- 
edge of  the  natural  secrets  which  may  serve  his  egotism. 
He  is  a  close  observer  where  his  passions  encourage 
observation ;  he  is  a  minute  calculator,  not  from  love  of 
truth,  but  where  love  of  self  sharpens  his  faculties ; 
therefore  he  can  be  a  man  of  science.  I  suppose  such  a 
being,  having  by  experience  learned  the  power  of  his  arts 
over  others,  trying  what  may  be  the  power  of  will  over 
his  own  frame,  and  studying  all  that  in  natural  phi- 
losophy may  increase  that  power.  He  loves  life,  he 
dreads  death;  he  wills  to  live  on.  He  cannot  restore 
himself  to  youth,  he  cannot  entirely  stay  the  progress  of 
death,  he  cannot  make  himself  immortal  in  the  flesh  and 
blood;  but  he  may  arrest,  for  a  time  so  long  as  to 
appear  incredible  if  I  said  it,  that  hardening  of  the  parts 
which  constitutes  old  age.  A  year  may  age  him  no 
more  than  an  hour  ages  another.  His  intense  will,  sci- 
entifically trained  into  system,  operates,  in  short,  over 
the  wear  and  tear  of  his  own  frame.  He  lives  on. 
That  he  may  not  seem  a  portent  and  a  miracle,  he  dies, 
from  time  to  time,  seemingly,  to  certain  persons.  Hav- 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN.       55 

ing  schemed  the  transfer  of  a  wealth  that  suffices  to  his 
wants,  he  disappears  from  one  corner  of  the  world,  and 
contrives  that  his  obsequies  shall  be  celebrated.  He 
reappears  at  another  corner  of  the  world,  where  he 
resides  undetected,  and  does  not  visit  the  scenes  of  his 
former  career  till  all  who  could  remember  his  features 
are  no  more.  He  would  be  profoundly  miserable  if  he 
had  affections ;  he  has  none  but  for  himself.  No  good 
man  would  accept  his  longevity ;  and  to  no  man,  good  or 
bad,  would  he  or  could  he  communicate  its  true  secret. 
Such  a  man  might  exist ;  such  a  man  as  I  have  described 

I  see  now  before  me,  —  Duke  of ,  in  the  court  of 

,  dividing  time  between  lust  and  brawl,  alchemists 

and  wizards;  again,  in  the  last  century,  charlatan  and 
criminal,  with  name  less  noble,  domiciled  in  the  house  at 
which  you  gazed  to-day,  and  flying  from  the  law  you  had 
outraged,  none  knew  whither ;  traveller  once  more  revis- 
iting London,  with  the  same  earthly  passions  which  filled 
your  heart  when  races  now  no  more  walked  through 
yonder  streets  ;  outlaw  from  the  school  of  all  the  nobler 
and  diviner  mysteries.  Execrable  image  of  life  in  death 
and  death  in  life,  I  warn  you  back  from  the  cities  and 
homes  of  healthful  men !  back  to  the  ruins  of  departed 
empires !  back  to  the  deserts  of  nature  unredeemed  !  " 

There  answered  me  a  whisper  so  musical,  so  potently 
musical,  that  it  seemed  to  enter  into  my  whole  being, 
and  subdue  me  despite  myself.  Thus  it  said  :  — 

"  I  have  sought  one  like  you  for  the  last  hundred 
years.  Now  I  have  found  you,  we  part  not  till  I  know 
what  I  desire.  The  vision  t'uat  sees  through  the  past 
and  cleaves  through  the  veil  of  the  future  is  in  you  at 


56  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

this  hour, — never  before,  never  to  come  again.  The 
vision  of  no  puling,  fantastic  girl,  of  no  sick-bed  som- 
nambule,  but  of  a  strong  man  with  a  vigorous  brain. 
Soar,  and  look  forth !  " 

As  he  spoke,  I  felt  as  if  I  rose  out  of  myself  upon 
eagle  •wings.  All  the  weight  seemed  gone  from  air, 
roofless  the  room,  roofless  the  dome  of  space.  I  was  not 
in  the  body,  —  where,  I  knew  not ;  but  aloft  over  time, 
over  earth. 

Again  I  heard  the  melodious  whisper :  "  You  say  right. 
I  have  mastered  great  secrets  by  the  power  of  will. 
True,  by  will  and  by  science  I  can  retard  the  process  of 
years ;  but  death  comes  not  by  age  alone.  Can  I  frus- 
trate the  accidents  which  bring  death  upon  the  young  ?  " 

"  No ;  every  accident  is  a  providence.  Before  a 
providence,  snaps  every  human  will." 

"  Shall  I  die  at  last,  ages  and  ages  hence,  by  the  slow, 
though  inevitable,  growth  of  time,  or  by  the  cause  that  I 
call  accident  ?  " 

"  By  a  cause  you  call  accident." 

"Is  not  the  end  still  remote?"  asked  the  whisper, 
with  a  slight  tremor. 

"  Regarded  as  my  life  regards  time,  it  is  still  remote." 

"  And  shall  I,  before  then,  mix.  with  the  world  of  men 
as  I  did  ere  I  learned  these  secrets ;  resume  eager  inter- 
est in  their  strife  and  their  trouble ;  battle  with  ambi- 
tion, and  use  the  power  of  the  sage  to  win  the  power 
that  belongs  to  kings?" 

"  You  will  yet  play  a  part  on  the  earth  that  will  fill 
earth  with  commotion  and  amaze.  For  wondrous  designs 
have  you,  a  wonder  yourself,  been  permitted  to  live  on 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN.       57 

through  the  centuries.  All  the  secrets  you  have  stored 
will  then  have  their  uses ;  all  that  now  makes  you  a 
stranger  amidst  the  generations  will  contribute  then  to 
make  you  their  lord.  As  the  trees  and  the  straws  are 
drawn  into  a  whirlpool,  as  they  spin  round,  are  sucked 
to  the  deep,  and  again  tossed  aloft  by  the  eddies,  so  shall 
races  and  thrones  be  drawn  into  your  vortex.  Awful 
destroyer !  but  in  destroying,  made,  against  your  own 
will,  a  constructor." 

"  And  that  date,  too,  is  far  off?  " 

"Far  off;  when  it  comes,  think  your  end  in  this 
world  is  at  hand!" 

"  How  and  what  is  the  end  ?  Look  east,  west,  south, 
and  north." 

"  In  the  north,  where  you  never  yet  trod,  toward  the 
point  whence  your  instincts  have  warned  you,  there  a 
spectre  will  seize  you.  'T  is  Death !  I  see  a  ship !  it  is 
haunted;  'tis  chased!  it  sails  on.  Baffled  navies  sail 
after  that  ship.  It  enters  the  region  of  ice.  It  passes  a 
sky  red  with  meteors.  Two  moons  stand  on  high,  over 
ice-reefs.  I  see  the  ship  locked  between  white  defiles ; 
they  are  ice-rocks.  I  see  the  dead  strew  the  decks, 
stark  and  livid,  green  mould  on  their  limbs.  All  are 
dead  but  one  man,  —  it  is  you !  But  years,  though  so 
slowly  they  come,  have  then  scathed  you.  There  is  the 
coming  of  age  on  your  brow,  and  the  will  is  relaxed  in 
the  cells  of  the  brain.  Still  that  will,  though  enfeebled, 
exceeds  all  that  man  knew  before  you  ;  through  the  will 
you  live  on,  gnawed  with  famine.  And  nature  no  longer 
obeys  you  in  that  death-spreading  region ;  the  sky  is  a 
sky  of  iron,  and  the  air  has  iron  clamps,  and  the  ice- 
3* 


58  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

rocks  wedge  In  the  ship.  Hark  how  it  cracks  and 
groans  !  Ice  will  imbed  it  as  amber  imbeds  a  straw. 
And  a  man  has  gone  forth,  living  yet,  from  the  ship  and 
its  dead ;  and  he  has  clambered  np  the  spikes  of  an  ice- 
berg, and  the  two  moons  gaze  down  on  his  form.  That 
man  is  yourself,  and  terror  is  on  you,  —  terror ;  and  ter- 
ror has  swallowed  up  your  will.  And  I  see,  swarming  up 
the  steep  ice-rock,  gray,  grizzly  things.  The  bears  of 
the  North  have  scented  their  quarry ;  they  come  near 
you  and  nearer,  shambling,  and  rolling  their  bulk.  And 
in  that  day  every  moment  shall  seem  to  you  longer 
than  the  centuries  through  which  you  have  passed.  And 
heed  this :  after  life,  moments  continued  make  the  bliss 
or  the  hell  of  eternity." 

"  Hush,"  said  the  whisper.  "  But  the  day,  you  assure 
me,  is  far  off,  very  far !  I  go  back  to  the  almond  and 
rose  of  Damascus  !  Sleep  !  " 

The  room  swam  before  my  eyes.  I  became  insensible. 

When  I  recovered,  I  found  G holding  my  hand  and 

smiling.  He  said,  "You,  who  have  always  declared 
yourself  proof  against  mesmerism,  have  succumbed  at 
last  to  my  friend  Richards." 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Richards  ?  " 

"  Gone,  when  you  passed  into  a  trance,  saying  quietly 
to  me,  c  Your  friend  will  not  wake  for  an  hour.' " 

I  asked,  as  collectedly  as  I  could,  where  Mr.  Richard? 
\odged. 

"At  the  Trafalgar  Hotel." 

"  Give  me  your  arm,"  said  I  to  G .  "  Let  us  call 

on  him  ;  I  have  something  to  say." 

When  we  arrived  at  the  hotel,  we  were  told  that  Mr. 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  BRAIN.       59 

Richards  had  returned  twenty  minutes  before,  paid  his 
bill,  left  directions  with  his  servant  (a  Greek)  to  pack 
his  effects,  and  proceed  to  Malta  by  the  steamer  that 
should  leave  Southampton  the  next  day.  Mr.  Richards 
had  merely  said  of  his  own  movements,  that  he  had 
visits  to  pay  in  the  neighborhood  of  London,  and  it  was 
uncertain  whether  he  should  be  able  to  reach  Southamp- 
ton in  time  for  that  steamer ;  if  not,  he  should  follow  in 
the  next  one. 

The  waiter  asked  me  my  name.  On  my  informing 
him,  he  gave  me  a  note  that  Mr.  Richards  had  left  for 
me,  in  case  I  called. 

The  note  was  as  follows :  — 

"  I  wished  you  to  utter  what  was  in  your  mind.  You 
obeyed.  I  have  therefore  established  power  over  you. 
For  three  months  from  this  day  you  can  communicate  to 
no  living  man  what  has  passed  between  us.  You  cannot 
even  show  this  not*  to  the  friend  by  your  side.  During 
three  months,  silence  complete  as  to  me  and  mine.  Do 
you  doubt  my  power  to  lay  on  you  this  command  ?  try 
to  disobey  me.  At  the  end  of  the  third  month  the  spell 
is  raised.  For  the  rest,  I  spare  you.  I  shall  visit  your 
grave  a  year  and  a  day  after  it  has  received  you." 

So  ends  this  strange  story,  which  I  ask  no  one  to 
believe.  I  write  it  down  exactly  three  months  after  I 
received  the  above  note.  I  could  not  write  it  before, 

nor  could  I  show  to  G ,  in  spite  of  his  urgent  request, 

the  note  which  I  read  under  the  gas-lamp  by  his  side. 


D'OUTRE   MORT. 

BY  HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD. 

MOUNTAIN  intervale  all  velveted  in  green, 
and  half  the  verdure  overlaid  with  gold  by 
broad  rays  of  sunset  falling  level  through  the 
pass,  —  the  hills,  behind,  a  gray  and  gloomy  encampment 
softened  with  wreaths  of  vapor  and  dim  recesses  of  deep- 
est purple,  and  here  and  there  above  the  gaps  a  pale  star 
trembling  on  the  paler  blue.  In  spite  of  the  approach- 
ing night,  there  was  a  gay  glad  strength  about  the  scene, 
so  that  all  who  saw  it  might  have  felt  light  at  heart,  as 
if  the  rocky  rampart  shut  out  the  sorrows  of  the  world 
and  made  the  charmed  valley  an  enchanted  place. 

They  had  been  mowing  in  the  intervale ;  half-formed 
haycocks,  picturesquely  piled  along  the  meadows,  loaded 
the  air  with  heavy  sweetness ;  in  one,  partly  overthrown, 
a  lounger  lolled  luxuriously,  singing  idly  to  himself  that 
little  Venetian  song  of  Browning's,  to  some  tune  delight- 
ful  as  the  words  :  — 

"  O,  which  were  best,  to  roam  or  rest  ? 
The  land's  lap  or  the  water's  breast  ? 
To  sleep  on  yellow  millet -sheaves, 
Or  swim  in  lucid  shallows,  just 


D'OTJTRE    MORT.  61 

Eluding  water-lily  leaves, 
An  inch  from  Death's  black  fingers  thrust 
To  lock  you,  whom  release  he  must ; 
Which  life  were  best  on  summer  eves  ?  " 

The  perfumed  wind  blew  softly  over  the  singer,  like  a 
placid  breath;  the  sense  of  gathering  evening  hung 
above  him ;  he  lay  upon  the  billowy  hay  as  if  it  were  a 
cloud ;  he  was  a  voluptuary  in  his  pleasures ;  well  for 
him  if  they  were  always  as  innocent. 

A  young  girl  approached  the  singer,  swinging  her  hat 
as  she  came,  and  radiant  in  the  low  sunshine. 

She  was  named  Orient,  —  either  because  she  seemed, 
with  her  golden  locks,  her  fresh  fair  tints,  like  an  imper- 
sonation of  morning  and  the  East,  or  because  when  she 
was  born  hope's  day-star  rose  again  in  her  mother's  for- 
lorn heart.  Such  a  lovely  yet  half-fantastic  creature 
was  she,  that  you  hardly  believed  in  her  existence  when 
away  from  her. 

"  What  are  you  looking  for,  Orient  ?  "  said  the  loun- 
ger. 

"  The  fountain  of  youth,"  answered  her  silvery  tones. 
"  It  should  be  somewhere  in  this  happy  valley." 

"  You  do  not  need  it,"  he  replied  after  a  lingering 
glance. 

She  stooped  and  extricated  a  long  sweetbrier  bough 
from  the  hay  with  which  it  had  been  bent  but  not  cut 
down,  and  twisted  it,  still  blossoming,  round  and  round 
her  head  till  it  made  a  fragrant  diadem  of  rosy  stars. 

"Do  not,"  said  Reymund.  "Take  it  off;  or  I  shall 
have  to  do  as  Voltaire  did:  erect  my  long,  thin  body 
and  stand  before  you  like  a  point  of  admiration !  " 


62  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

Orient  did  not  reply ;  and,  fulfilling  his  threat,  he  went 
on  by  her  side  to  the  old  farm-house  that  had  been  turned 
into  a  summer  hostelry  for  guests.  More  stars  were 
beginning  to  steal  forth  in  the  tender  firmament;  the 
breeze  blew  down  more  freshly  from  the  hills  and  brought 
the  big  dews  and  scattered  starbeams  with  it;  music 
was  hushed,  and  all  the  world  was  still.  It  was  summer 
evening,  yet  an  unreal  kind  of  summer,  as  summer 
might  be  in  a  distant  dream,  blown  over  by  cool,  awaken- 
ing winds.  Now  and  then  Orient  stopped  to  pick  up  a 
great  butterfly  that  had  fallen  benumbed  from  its  perch 
and  lay  it  gently  to  rest  among  the  leaves,  without 
brushing  a  speck  of  dust  from  its  freckled  wings ;  after 
that  her  fingers  worked  in  a  vine  by  the  way,  and  she 
pulled  aside  a  tendril  that  kept  a  sleepy  flower  from 
shutting  up  its  petals.  As  she  did  so,  a  little  mother- 
bird  upon  her  eggs  stirred  and  briefly  twittered  out  her 
secret  to  Orient's  ear.  Reymund,  who  loitered  in  wait- 
ing for  her,  thought  she  seemed,  as  much  as  any  of 
them,  like  a  flower,  a  moth,  a  bird  herself,  a  beautiful 
and  almost  dumb  existence  of  nature. 

He  was  not  a  man  easily  intimidated,  or  of  unvaried 
experience ;  but  the  thin  atmosphere  of  awe  about  this 
girl  was  something  he  had  never  penetrated;  the  ease 
with  which  he  met  another,  toward  her  became  imperti- 
nence ;  gay  and  careless  with  many,  he  felt  that  she  was 
something  apart,  sacred  as  a  passion-flower ;  he  scarcely 
dared  approach  her  lightly;  when  he  spoke  to  her  he 
crossed  himself  in  his  heart. 

They  had  never  met  until  a  month  ago,  yet  their  ad- 
dress had  been  familiar  almost  from  the  first ;  on  her 


D'OUTRE   MOET.  63 

side,  through  a  large-eyed,  childlike  fearlessness ;  on  his 
—  he  could  not  have  answered  why.  He  watched  her 
as  one  watches  a  clear  planet  glow  steadily  from  the  soft, 
golden  sky,  but  he  seemed  nevertheless  to  know  all  her 
characteristics  without  studying  them,  —  he  imagined 
that  to  one  weary  of  trifle  and  artifice  and  the  hollow 
way  of  the  world,  here  was  the  rest  divine.  Yet  be- 
yond a  point,  he  found  this  cool,  remote  being  inacces- 
sible, —  as  though  there  had  been  a  gulf  between  them. 
He  knew  not  how  to  call  the  blush  to  her  cheek,  the 
sparkle  to  her  eye  ;  if  she  had  been  some  alien  creature 
she  might  have  been  nearer,  —  to  enrich  her  with  human 
love  was  as  fruitless  an  effort  as  scattering  the  pollen  of  a 
rose  into  the  heart  of  a  cold  white  lily.  And  yet,  Rey- 
mund  knew  —  as  if  through  the  same  natural  operations 
as  those  by  which  his  pulse  was  made  to  beat,  his  breath 
to  draw  —  that  Orient's  soul  needed  his  for  its  entire- 
ness  ;  that  his  soul  required  hers,  all  as  much  as  a  star 
needed  its  atmosphere,  a  flower  its  fragrance,  the  earth 
itself  its  spheral  roundness.  It  was  not  so  much  that 
he  already  loved  her  passionately,  as  that  he  felt  himself 
lost  without  her;  he  had  been  in  Orient's  presence,  it 
seemed,  all  the  time  that  he  had  ever  lived ;  how  could 
he  then  depart  from  it  ?  If  that  which  was  a  clod  sud- 
denly found  itself  a  bed  of  blossom,  how  could  it  ever 
return  again  to  dreary  earthiness  ? 

He  watched  her  now  approaching.  Had  any  one  said 
that  she  trailed  lustre  behind  her  as  she  walked,  he 
would  have  answered  that  he  had  seen  it.  But  to  speak 
to  her  of  any  grace  or  charm  or  perfection  that  she  pos- 
sessed, —  why,  these  things  were  herself,  her  identity, 


64  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

sacred  and  secret ;  as  easily  to  some  skyey  messenger  ol 
solemn  heaven  commend  his  airy  flight ! 

"In  what  wonderful  ways  these  mountains  change 
their  expression ! "  said  Reymund,  as  she  joined  him 
again  at  last. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "they  are  different  beings  every 
hour." 

"A  little  while  ago,"  he  continued,  "they  seemed 
like  an  army  of  giants  sitting  down  to  besiege  the  valley ; 
now  they  are  a  wall  between  us  and  mankind ;  death  can- 
not break  through  it,  sickness  cannot  cross  it." 

"  They  are  more  alive  than  that,"  said  Orient.  "  This 
old  sombre  one  moved  aside  just  now  to  make  room  for 
the  little  alp  laughing  over  his  shoulder,  with  the  rosy 
vapor  streaming  high  on  her  face." 

"  Perhaps  you  hear  what  they  are  saying  to  one 
another,  then  ?  "  he  asked,  half  jestingly. 

"  I  often  do." 

"  And  you  will  translate  ?  " 

"No.  In  the  first  place  you  would  laugh;  in  the 
last  place  disbelieve." 

"  On  my  soul  —  no  !  " 

'"  I  am  not  certain  that  you  have  a  soul .  " 

"  Indeed  ?    Is  it  so  ?  "  half  sadly. 

"  They  say  what  the  torrents  rushing  down  by  Cha- 
mouni  say ! " 

"  Ah  !     And  at  other  times  ?  " 

"  They  talk  of  the  beginning  of  the  earth,  and  conjec- 
ture concerning  the  end  of  things." 

"  And  do  they  take  any  notice  of  you  ?  Nature  al- 
ways seems  to  me  careless  and  indifferent." 


D'OUTRE    MORT.  65 

"  They  invite  me  to  come  up  and  lie  down  on  their 
great  sides  where  the  sun  has  lain  all  day  before  me. 
Yes,  they  always  smile  upon  me." 

"  Do  not  go,  —  at  least  until  the  mamma  and  I  go 
with  you." 

"  I  should  not  be  afraid  alone." 

No,  —  fear  had  never  found  the  depths  of  those  liquid, 
lucent  eyes,  he  thought.  "The  mountains  might  be 
civil  enough,"  he  rejoined,  "and  give  you  their  purple 
berries  to  eat,  their  wild  white  brooks  to  drink ;  but  I 
could  not  answer  for  the  black  bears  and  snakes." 

"  I  think  I  could." 

"And  this,  of  course,  is  only  what  you  interpret  the 
hills  to  mean,  sitting  there  in  their  grim  conclave  and 
affording  us  such  a  narrow  coronal  of  sky  ?  "  asked  Rey- 
mund,  smiling. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  answered  doubtfully.  "  I  said 
things  were  real  to  me." 

"  There  must  have  been  those  like  you,  who  first  saw 
and  believed  in  fairies  and  all  the  goblin  people,"  he 
said,  still  smiling. 

"  My  father  died  before  I  was  born,"  said  Orient.  "  Per- 
haps that  gave  me  some  lien  upon  the  spiritual  world." 

"  Then  you  see  bogles  as  well  as  other  things,  —  as 
well  as  the  personalities  of  bud  and  bird  and  granite  pile  ? 
Uncanny  creature !  What  pleasure  shall  I  take  in  meet- 
ing your  glance  when  it  rests  also  on  a  dead  man  behind 
me,  and  on  the  fetch  of  one  about  to  join  the  innumerable 
caravan  beside  me  ?  I  must  take  my  revenge  normally 
and  in  kind,  —  if  I  die  before  you,  you  shall  surely  have 
a  visitation  from  me.  How  should  you  like  that  ?  " 


66  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

"  You  would  be  just  as  welcome  then  as  now,"  she 
answered  gravely. 

"An  equivocal  compliment.  Nevertheless,  I  accept 
it  as  a  challenge.  Will  you  promise  its  counterpart  P  " 

"  When  I  die,"  said  Orient,  "  I  shall  have  other  tilings 
to  do." 

"  But  I  would  like  to  see  a  ghost,  just  to  be  assured 
that  there  are  such  things." 

"  As  if  there  could  be  any  doubt !  " 

"  You  understand,  then,"  he  said,  as  she  went  in  under 
the  low  woodbine-curtained  door,  "  that  at  some  time  — 
when  time  shall  be  no  more  —  I  will  cast  my  shadow  at 
your  feet ! " 

It  was  an  hour  later  that,  while  he  still  strolled  in  the 
short,  wet  grass  and  enjoyed  the  rich,  half-dusky  atmos- 
phere, he  heard  Orient  singing  gently  from  her  window, 
as  she  leaned  out  upon  the  cool,  star-sown  air,  and  the 
song  seemed  to  belong  to  her,  like  a  natural  expression, 
as  to  the  night  the  night- wind,  or  to  the  dark  the  dew :  — • 

"  In  the  evening  over  me  leaning, 
Often  I  fancy  a  waving  wing, 
And  with  the  warning  of  blushing  morning 
Softly  glimmers  the  same  fair  thing. 

"  O  bright  being,  beyond  the  seeing 

Of  aught  but  the  spirit  that  feels  you  near, 

Your  white  star  leaving,  and  earthward  cleaving, 

You  break  the  murk  of  this  mortal  sphere. 

"  Still,  sweet  stranger,  in  peace  or  danger, 

Out  of  the  air  above  me  bloom, 
And  heaven's  own  sweetness  in  such  completeness 
Drop  on  my  head  from  your  shining  plume ! " 


D'OUTRE   MORT.  67 

Even  while  he  heard  her  singing,  the  sense  of  her 
remoteness  gave  Reymund  a  slight  shudder.  If  she  had 
been  one  shade  more  human;  if  he  had  ever  seen  her 
moved  by  any  sparkle  of  wit,  any  drollery  of  humor, 
into  a  frolicking  outburst  of  laughter,  by  any  mischiev- 
ous vexation  into  a  flash  of  anger,  a  season  of  pettishness, 
— but  no,  such  little  incidents  affected  her  no  more  than 
thistle-down  affects  the  wind ;  and,  recognizing  it,  Rey- 
mund  knew  that  he  loved  her,  yet  felt  somehow  as  he 
felt  who  had  pledged  a  bridal  ring  upon  the  finger  of 
a  ghost;  as  that  youth  felt,  perchance,  whose  beautiful 
mistress  was  after  all  a  ghoul.  He  need  not  have  con- 
cerned himself;  Orient  had  no  especial  care  for  him;  he 
passed  before  her,  busy  in  her  world  of  dreams,  like  a 
shadow;  if  she  smiled  upon  him,  it  was  as  she  smiled 
on  everything  else  about  her,  as  she  smiled  on  the  pink- 
wreathed  peach-bough,  on  the  urchin  tumbling  in  grass, 
on  the  sunbeam  overlaying  both,  on  blue  sky  or  on  rainy 
weather;  though,  indeed,  for  the  latter,  Orient  had  su- 
perfluous smiles ;  she  was  always  sunny  herself  upon  a 
stormy  day ;  she  used  to  say  that  it  seemed  as  if  Nature 
had  grown  so  familiar  with  her  that  she  could  afford  to 
receive  her  and  show  herself  to  her  in  undress.  Per- 
haps, had  Reymund  been  more  free  himself  from  the 
soil  and  stain  of  earth,  Orient  would  not  have  been  so 
intangible. 

They  were  going  one  day  up  the  mountain,  Orient,  her 
mother,  the  guide,  and  Reymund,  the  first  two  riding, 
Reymund  and  the  guide  on  foot.  The  air  was  so  clear 
that  it  seemed  like  living  in  the  inside  of  a  crystal; 
everything  stood  with  sharp  outlines,  as  if  drawn  with 


68  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

a  burin  upon  the  deep  substance  of  the  blue  :  far  away 
tender  gauzes  took  up  the  distance,  but  that  was  merely 
on  the  outside  edges  of  the  world.  After  they  had  ex- 
hausted the  view  from  the  wide-reaching  summit,  where 
the  eye  seemed  to  wrest  from  the  Creator  more  than  had 
ever  been  given  to  it,  they  went  below  into  the  shelter  of 
the  great  rocks  and  lunched.  It  was  late  in  the  after- 
noon ere  they  remounted  and  sought  their  way  down 
the  long  descent.  The  path  which  had  been  slight  with 
difficulties  in  climbing  was  now  full  of  downward  terrors. 
Orient  bent  far  back  in  her  seat,  unable  to  see  where 
her  horse  would  plant  his  feet.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he 
was  stepping  over  sheer  abysses,  and  just  as  she  herself 
went  sliding  and  slipping  forward  over  his  head  and 
down,  a  strong  arm  from  an  unseen  form  behind  the 
cliff,  round  which  she  had  just  wound,  would  grasp  her, 
and  Reymund  would  hold  her  firm  till  the  beast  stood 
four-square  again.  It  was  to  her  a  thing  like  the  arm 
of  Providence  made  visible  to  faith.  Suddenly  the  girth 
broke,  and  but  for  that  strong  arm  on  the  instant  out- 
stretched, Providence  itself  alone  knows  what  would 
have  become  of  her.  Reymund  caught  her  then  as  she 
reeled  from  the  saddle,  and  placed  her  on  the  ground. 
The  horse,  startled  by  the  unexpectedness  of  the  affair, 
fled  forward ;  the  guide  left  the  bridle  he  had  held  be- 
hind and  pursued  him.  Catching  the  rein  with  a  jerk 
and  oath,  he  dealt  such  a  blow  with  his  boot  that  the 
animal  lost  his  balance  and  fell,  and  would  have  rolled 
over  the  precipice  but  for  a  prostrate  tree.  In  a  mo- 
ment what  Reymund  had  wanted  to  see  was  granted 
him.  Orient  sprang  forward,  her  face  aflame,  her  eyes 


D'OUTRE   MOBT.  69 

like  balefires.  The  guide,  amazed,  as  one  might  he  at 
the  sight  of  an  avenger  in  his  path,  obeyed  her  single 
•word,  her  vehement  gesture,  and  plunged  down  the  way 
and  left  them. 

"  Orient !  what  have  you  done  ?  "  cried  her  mother. 

"  Well,  well,  mamma,"  answered  the  suddenly  con- 
victed and  penitent  one,  "  we  can  follow  his  red  cap." 

But  the  guide,  twice  too  cunning,  hid  himself  in  un- 
derhung paths  that  he  knew,  and  they  had  not  a  sign 
or  signal  for  aid. 

Nevertheless,  Reymund  gladly  accepted  this  fate  be- 
cause of  the  thing  that  brought  it,  and  at  which  another 
man  would  have  looked  askance.  This  thing,  this  little 
temper,  had  proved  to  him  that  Orient  was  human, — 
and,  therefore,  to  be  won.  He  raised  the  pony,  remount- 
ed Orient,  and  did  his  best  in  place  of  their  faithless 
leader,  trusting  more  to  the  instincts  of  the  animals 
themselves  than  to  any  mountain-craft  of  Ms  own. 

The  sharp  outlines  of  distant  peaks  began  to  burn  and 
blacken,  those  of  the  nearer  rock  and  stunted  shrub  to 
grow  diffuse ;  the  air  was  keen  and  chill,  a  reddening 
sunset  smouldered  in  clouds  below  them  and  shut  out 
the  world,  a  cold,  wet  mist  below  threatened  to  come 
creeping  up  around  them.  The  horses  neighed  to  each 
other,  grew  jaded  and  uncertain,  stopped.  Masses  of 
impassable  rock  closed  them  in  on  every  side,  save  the 
narrow  defile  through  which  they  came  and  the  precipice 
below ;  the  atmosphere  was  purple  with  shade  and  chong 
to  them  in  dew  ;  already  one  star  hung  out  its  blue  lamp. 

"  We  can  go  no  farther,"  said  Reymund.  "  This  spot 
is  more  sheltered  than  any  we  are  likely  to  find.  Let 


70  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

us  do  what  we  can  for  comfort,  and  wait  for  the  morn- 
ing." 

The  mother  bewailed  herself;  but  Orient  made  cheer, 
and  while  Reymund  corralled  the  horses,  she  was  busy 
collecting  twigs  and  splinters  and  bits  of  wood  and  dry 
moss  in  a  pile.  "  Light  them  with  your  matches,  Rey- 
mund," she  said.  "  A  cigar  will  keep  you  warm,  but 
we  need  a  bit  of  blaze,  perhaps." 

"  When  it  is  darker,"  he  replied ;  "  you  will  need  it 
more  a  little  nearer  to  the  witching  time." 

"  Do  you  imagine  we  shall  see  witches  ?  " 

"  Take  care,  or  you  will  see  stars." 

"  He  rode  alone  through  the  silent  night, 
She  swam  like  a  star  to  his  left  and  right," 

sang  Orient.    "  After  all,  it  is  not  the  Walpurgis  Night." 

"If  we  could  only  have  a  cup  of  tea!"  sighed  the 
mamma,  at  a  loss  for  her  luxuries  in  the  wilderness. 

"  It  will  be  so  much  more  refreshing  to-morrow,"  said 
Orient.  "  And  seasoned  with  romance,  —  a  dash  of  dan- 
ger, —  your  first  adventure,  little  mother ! " 

But  the  little  mother  had  no  fancy  for  adventures ; 
and  while  her  daughter  lost  all  her  serenity  and  was 
crazy  with  delight  at  the  wild  beauty  of  the  thing,  she 
grew  more  and  more  lachrymose,  and  afforded  at  last  a 
good  background  of  shower  for  all  Orient's  rainbows. 
Thereon  Orient,  sitting  down,  put  her  arms  round  her 
and  comforted  her,  till  the  mother  became  herself  some- 
what alive  to  the  circumstance  that  one  seldom  saw 
such  a  scene  twice  in  a  lifetime. 

They  had  remained  on  the  rocky  platform  where  they 


D'OUTRE    MORT.  71 

paused,  a  shelf  that  after  a  few  yards  ended  in  an  abrupt 
fall  that  led  away  by  a  course  of  stark  precipices  into  the 
great  valley  beneath.  This  valley,  filled  with  rolling  va- 
por, whose  volumes,  smitten  by  sunset,  were  fused  in 
splendid  color,  made  a  pavilion  of  cloud  beneath  them 
where  billows  of  fleecy  crimson  and  shining  scarlet  cur- 
dled together  into  creamy  crests,  here  seeming  to  lash  in 
feather-white  foam  against  the  base  of  some  crag,  and 
there  letting  a  late  sunbeam  plough  through  spaces  of  a 
violet-dark  drift  till  they  were  all  inwrought  with  gold. 
Above  them  the  cold  and  mighty  heaven  was  already 
faintly  but  thickly  strewn  with  stars. 

"  Into  what  awful  and  glorious  region  are  we  trans- 
lated ! "  cried  Orient.  "  We  are  above  the  world  and  the 
people  of  the  world.  Are  we  flesh  and  blood  ?  " 

"  The  free  spirits  of  the  air  '  have  no  such  liberty '  as 
this  of  ours,"  said  Reymund. 

"  It  is  just  as  if  we  were  dead  ! "  shivered  the  mamma. 
"  And  I  'm  sure  it 's  cold  enough  for  that !  " 

Orient  wrapped  the  shawls  about  the  doleful  little 
woman,  while  Reymund  opened  his  knapsack  for  any 
remnants  of  lunch  that  might  afford  them  consolation. 
He  kindled  the  fire,  too,  for  the  colors  were  fading  away 
beneath,  and  the  sky  was  getting  gloomy  overhead ;  and, 
warmed  and  enlivened  in  the  genial  light  of  the  briefly 
crackling  blaze,  they  forgot  that  they  were  lost  upon  the 
mountain,  and  all  the  possible  horrors  of  their  fate.  But 
to  Reymund  there  were  few  horrors  in  it,  for  if  he  died 
of  exposure  and  starvation  there  on  the  bald,  pitiless 
mountain,  it  would  be  with  Orient  in  his  arms  at  last. 

While  the  fire  crackled,  Reymund  found  in  his  breast- 


72  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

pocket  a  tiny  flask  of  cordial  which  he  divided  into  three 
portions.  "  Drink  it,"  he  said  to  them,  "  and  make  it 
take  the  place  of  the  tea.  It  is  Chartreuse  —  oily  sunshine 
—  distilled  from  the  cones  of  some  old  fir-tree.  First 
cousin  to  the  cedars  of  Lebanon,  for  all  I  know.  Mark 
how  you  taste  hemlock  in  it.  Socrates  poisoned  with  hem- 
lock ?  No,  no ;  he  drank  himself  to  death  on  Chartreuse." 

Orient  heard  him  indignantly.  "  I  do  not  like  it," 
said  she,  when  her  turn  came,  and  left  hers  in  the  horn. 
Reymund  laughed ;  he  hesitated  a  moment,  then  tossed 
it  off  himself. 

The  fire  did  not  last  them  long,  for  all  the  twigs  they 
could  collect  were  scanty ;  the  blaze  had  heated  the  rock 
a  little ;  they  drew  closer  to  it,  and  the  mother,  curling 
Up  against  it  in  her  shawls,  composed  herself  as  she 
could  for  slumber ;  the  voices  of  Orient  and  Reymund, 
from  where  they  still  sat  and  talked  together,  lulled  her 
as  the  murmur  of  the  waterfall  lulled  Sleep  himself. 
Orient  was  repeating  Jean  Ingelow's  dream  of  her  lover 
fallen  and  dead -among  the  hills,  with  its  vague  and  awe- 
some imagery.  "  I  do  not  understand,"  she  said,  as  she 
ceased,  "this  solicitude  that  my  mother  and  so  many 
others  feel  concerning  their  burial-place.  I  love  life,  de- 
licious life ;  but  if  we  die  and  lie  unburied  here  forever 
among  the  lonely  precipices,  it  will  not  matter  any  more  to 
us  than  it  did  to  the  youth."  And  she  repeated  again  :  — 

"  The  first  hath  no  advantage,  —  it  shall  not  soothe  his  slumber 

That  a  lock  of  his  brown  hair  his  father  aye  shall  keep ; 
For  the  last,  he  nothing  grudgeth,  it  shall  naught  his  quiet 

cumber 
That  in  a  golden  mesh  of  his,  callow  eaglets  sleep." 


D'OUTRE   MOET.  73 

Reymund  quaked  at  the  moment,  as  he  thought  of  any 
lustrous  lock  of  Orient's  curling  out  of  the  fierce  beak 
that  should  tear  it  away  from  the  white  brow.  Then  he 
said :  "  Too  philosophic  by  half.  As  for  me,  with  the 
first  peep  of  day  in  this  high  meridian,  I  shall  be  up  and 
doing,  and  find  a  way  to  our  level  again  or  —  perish  in 
the  attempt." 

"Resolved  to  perish,  any  way.  Give  you  liberty  or 
give  you  death.  I  do  not  feel  in  such  a  hurry  to  be 
gone.  How  silent  and  solemn  it  is,  —  what  a  clear  dark- 
ness, —  listen  a  moment  and  catch  the  sough  of  that  pine 
forest  far  beneath,  like  the  wings  of  some  great  spirit 
sifting  the  air.  I  have  never  been  so  near  heaven.  I 
understand  now  why  in  the  Bible  they  so  often  withdrew 
into  a  high  mountain." 

R/eymund  did  not  answer  her.  "  Say  your  prayers, 
innocent  one,"  was  what  he  thought.  "  Wherever  you 
are,  there  heaven  is  near." 

By  and  by  Orient  crept  closer  to  her  mother  for  mu- 
tual comfort,  wound  her  own  cloak  round  her  like  a 
chrysalis,  and  drowsed  and  dreamed. 

Reymund  sat  beside  her,  his  knees  drawn  up,  his 
hands  clasped  round  them.  It  was  very  cool ;  the  air 
was  so  still  that  he  wondered  at  the  absence  of  a  sting- 
ing frost,  and  he  hugged  himself  thus  for  warmth. 
Orient  stirred  in  her  half-recumbent  sleep,  and  her  head 
fell  on  his  shoulder.  After  that  the  solid  mountain 
was  less  immovable  than  he.  He  let  the  beautiful  head 
remain,  watching  it  with  downcast,  sidelong  gaze ;  if  he 
had  longed  with  all  his  heart  to  smooth  one  tress,  to  put 
his  arm  over  her  in  a  sheltering  embrace,  he  dared  not 

VOL.  II.  4 


74  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

touch  her.  Something  said  to  him  that  she  was  of  a 
grade  above,  as  the  disembodied  is  beyond  the  clay ; 
said,  too,  that  whatever  lovely  or  fine  there  might  be  in 
himself,  the  thickness  of  the  outer  wrapping  rendered  it 
invisible  to  her ;  that  for  Orient  to  read  him  right  he 
must  wait  for  another  life.  In  spite  of  all  that,  he  hoped, 
—  hoped  madly  and  wildly,  there  in  the  chill  night,  with 
the  beautiful  head  fallen  on  his  shoulder  and  the  sweet, 
warm  breath  stealing  gently  across  his  bending  brow. 
He  had  a  strange  fancy  now  and  then  that  out  of  the 
encircling  shadow  a  great  face  came  and  looked,  — 
whether  that  of  some  uncreated  thing,  some  phantasm 
of  his  brain,  or  that  of  some  celestial  being,  some  resi- 
dent of  vast  spaces,  or  only  a  wild  beast,  a  big,  brown 
bear,  roving  on  their  tracks  and  coming  to  peer  about 
their  unprotected  bivouac.  Whatever  it  was,  it  retired 
as  often  as  it  came,  awed  in  its  turn,  he  thought,  by  the 
sweet  innocence  of  that  golden  head.  A  late  moon  rose 
down  over  the  low  side  of  the  earth  as  he  still  sat  there ; 
he  knew  it  by  the  strange  coppery  light  that  began  to 
glow  through  the  vapors  that  yet  filled  the  gulfs  beneath, 
and  boil  them  to  a  scum  of  dark,  dun  gold  ;  then  at  kst 
a  broad  beam  parted  the  tumbling  and  sulphurous  fogs, 
and  the  bright,  thin  crescent  of  the  waning  moon  cut 
itself  out  on  a  clear  air  behind  the  horn  of  the  hill,  and,  as  if 
swinging  from  its  sharp  cusp,  hung  the  watery  diamond 
of  the  morning  star.  Still  Reymund  did  not  lift  the 
head  from  his  shoulder ;  he  chose  rather  that  the  fair 
apparition  of  daybreak  at  this  height  above  the  earth 
might  happen  to  him,  as  if  through  the  imposition  of 
that  dear  and  tender  touch.  By  and  by  she  stirred  rest- 


D'OTJTRE    MORT.  75 

lessly,  —  the  spell  of  her  slumber  was  breaking ;  he 
moved  away  gently  and  left  her  the  rock  for  a  pillow. 
When  the  heavens  were  paling  and  retreating  in  a  mist 
of  star-breath,  and  when  all  the  world  was  whitening  about 
her  and  the  great  floor  of  cloud  beneath  was  inwrought 
by  dawn  with  sparks  of  fire,  so  that  they  seemed 
wrapped  in  an  atmosphere  of  flame  and  snow,  Orient 
awoke. 

No  hero  in  his  self-restraint,  in  one  wild,  forgetful 
moment  of  that  morning,  Reymund  told  Orient  that  he 
loved  her. 

She  repulsed  him  so  gently  that  it  gave  him  reason  to 
hope,  yet  so  firmly  that  he  could  do  nothing  but  despair. 

He  urged  that  she  was  unconscious  of  herself,  that  she 
did  not  know  her  own  heart,  nor  what  it  wanted ;  that  he 
had  approached  her  inner  life  more  nearly  than  another 
might  ever  do ;  that,  give  him  time  and  chance,  he  could 
not  fail  to  win  her. 

She  only  answered  that  she  was  not  won. 

Before,  in  their  windings  and  wanderings,  they  had 
reached  the  foot  of  the  mountain  that  day,  they  met  their 
recusant  and  repentant  guide  coming  up  with  others  in 
search  of  them,  and  all  their  toil  and  trouble  were  over. 

Reymund's  holiday  was  over  too.  He  was  to  return 
next  day  to  his  home,  to  engagements  previously  formed 
and  not  to  be  disregarded. 

"  At  least,"  he  said  to  Orient,  not  sadly,  but  with  a 
certain  vigor  of  intention  in  his  tone,  "you  will  allow 
me  to  visit  you  at  your  mother's  house  ?  " 

"  You  could  not  do  a  kinder  thing,"  answered  Orient^ 
feeling  now  the  gap  that  he  would  leave,  and  which 


76  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

nothing  could  quite  fill,  and  willing  to  grant  him  any- 
thing  but  what  he  most  desired. 

"  Then  you  will  see  me  on  Saturdays." 

"Every  Saturday!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  bright 
face  that  made  his  heart  bound.  "That  is  too  much 
to  ask." 

"Of  you,  perhaps;  not  of  me.  Sunday  is  a  spare 
day ;  if  I  use  it  for  God's  worship,  it  shall  be  at  what 
shrine  I  please,  —  St.  Orient's  or  another's." 

"  And  it  is  such  a  long  ride,"  demurred  she,  remem- 
bering the  miles  on  miles  of  low  sea-coast  country 
threaded  with  rivers  and  inlaid  with  marshes,  that  he 
must  cross,  all  day  flying  along  through  their  damp 
breath  and  salt  winds.  "  Nine  hours ;  I  am  afraid  I 
ought  not  to  allow  it.  And  yet,  —  and  yet,  nine  or 
nineteen,  it  shall  make  no  difference." 

Orient  had  hesitated  in  her  last  sentence,  wondering 
how  she  could  deny  herself  the  sympathy  in  her  little 
pursuits  that  through  this  time  she  had  received  from 
Reymund.  She  had  not  encountered  it  before;  it  was 
delightful  to  her ;  perhaps  it  only  had  not  taught  her 
love  because  she  did  not  know  what  love  was.  She  had 
but  little  knowledge  of  human  nature,  almost  none  at  all 
of  her  own  nature  :  she  preferred  natural  religion  before 
theology,  natural  history,  with  its  grandiose  revolutions, 
before  the  petty  struggles  of  warriors  and  diplomatists 
which  her  view  was  not  broad  enough  to  throw  into 
epochs  and  revolutions  more  grandiose  yet :  it  was  Rey- 
mund who  had  taught  her  to  look  with  kindly  curiosity 
upon  the  lives  of  those  about  her,  in  hopes,  it  may  be, 
of  teaching  her  at  last  to  look  in  upon  her  own.  Of 


D'OUTRE    MORT.  77 

that  she  was  unaware ;  but  the  interest  in  the  flower 
never  found  before  to-day,  the  discovery  of  the  bird 
whose  note  had  ravished  the  ear  last  sunset,  the  hunt 
up  brookside  and  hill  for  a  fragment  of  quartz  that 
should  have  a  mountain  range  and  outlying  spurs  of 
amethyst  crystals,  or  one  full  of  imbedded  beryls,  the 
shining  hexagons  like  drops  of  light  filtered  through  sea- 
water,  or  any  heap  of  blooded  garnets,  a  blaze  of  con- 
crete color ;  the  search  into  the  age  of  the  old  pine-tree 
on  the  precipice ;  into  the  mountain  strata,  and  the  won- 
derment concerning  that  day  of  the  earth's  date  on  which 
they  were  upheaved ;  the  tracing  out  the  path  of  some 
glacier  with  all  its  ancient  and  icy  terrors  overgrown  by 
the  verdant  moss  and  turf  of  the  moraine ;  the  perpet- 
ual looking  for  the  Maker's  fingers  in  his  work, — --all 
this,  and  such  as  this,  she  would  miss  and  must  resign 
if  she  forbade  those  recurring  Saturdays.  And  then, 
on  the  other  hand,  a  friend  to  meet  with  the  results 
of  work,  the  choice  book,  the  week's  research,  its 
thought,  its  fancy :  she  who  had  had  no  intimates,  few 
friends  — 

Reymund  did  not  wait  for  her  to  balance  her  ideas. 

"The  train  arrives,"  said  he,  "by  five  o'clock,  —  a 
little  before.  Every  Saturday,  therefore,  at  five  o'clock, 
I  shall  be  in  your  drawing-room." 

The  thing  was  settled,  then,  without  her.  She  began 
all  at  once  to  fear  that,  after  all,  it  would  not  happen  so ; 
he  would  let  other  things  creep  between ;  when  he  was 
fairly  at  a  distance  from  her  he  would  be  angry  with  her 
for  having  quite  failed  to  feel  that  entire  satisfaction  in 
him,  to  give  him  that  love  which,  in  a  high  ideal,  she  be- 


78  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

lieved  to  be  due  from  every  woman  to  her  husband ;  a 
thousand  things  would  hinder. 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  it,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  too  happy  when  you  doubt  it,"  he  replied,  half 
reading  her  thoughts.  "  It  gives  me  hope ;  for  we  can 
easily  believe  that  to  which  we  are  indifferent.  How 
can  I  be  hindered  when  I  will  it,  —  and  when  you  wish 
it  ?  "  The  blush  that  streamed  up  her  temples  doubly 
pleased  him.  "  Do  not  doubt  it ! "  he  exclaimed,  with 
more  vivacity  than  so  small  a  thing  appeared  to  demand. 
"  For,  see,  I  swear  it !  I  will  be  with  you  on  each 
Saturday  at  five  o'clock,  with  your  permission,  until  the 
day  I  die!" 

So,  dropping  her  hand,  he  went  down  the  lane  to  the 
coach.  But,  looking  back,  he  saw  her  still  standing  in 
the  doorway,  hung  with  such  drooping  drapery  of  wood- 
bine round  her  head,  the  sunlight  lying  in  a  glory  on  her 
golden  hair,  the  downy  bloom  upon  her  cheek  as  though 
it  were  a  peach,  a  smile  upon  her  lip,  and  heaven's  own 
blue  within  her  eye,  —  she  seemed  the  incarnation  of  a 
summer  sunrise.  He  saw  the  riotous  wind  lift  one  curl 
and  twine  it  with  the  next,  drop  the  petal  of  a  rose  upon 
her  mouth,  kiss  and  kiss  again  her  ivory  forehead,  free 
and  welcome  where  he  dared  not  venture,  —  and  the 
love  in  his  heart  made  the  blood  boil  hotly  up  his  veins 
to  cheek  and  brow,  —  and  for  all  testimony  to  his  thrill- 
ing passion,  he  only  cried,  "Every  Saturday,  at  five 
o'clock !  "  and  was  away. 

But  before  Reymund  plunged  afresh  into  the  exterior 
world,  which,  for  these  weeks,  had  been  shut  from  his 
sight,  he  turned  aside  for  one  last  outlook  upon  pleas- 


D'OUTRE    MORT.  79 

ure.  Thus  it  happened  that  he  left  the  train  at  an  ear- 
lier station  than  the  one  near  Orient's  home,  partly  to 
avoid  recognition  in  the  future,  partly  for  the  sake  of 
mounting  and  subduing  a  spirited  horse  which  had  been 
brought  up  to  tear  himself  into  a  foam  at  sight  of  the 
engine.  Reymund  meant  to  gratify  himself  that  day 
with  a  stroll  through  Orient's  garden  and  among  the 
haunts  of  her  bright  youth.  No  one  would  have  taken 
him  for  anything  but  an  apparition,  who  saw  him 
galloping  down  the  long  country  roads  in  a  cloud  of 
dust.  When  he  had  conquered  the  angry  temper  of 
the  beast  he  abated  his  gait  and  paced  slowly  along  the 
margin  of  the  twice-mown  meadows,  splendid  in  noon 
sunshine,  over  the  shaven  surfaces  of  rusty  reds  and 
browns,  into  which  they  shaded  all  their  gilded  ver- 
dure. Now  and  then  a  bittern  cried  from  the  bank 
of  a  tiny  thread  of  the  tide,  other  notes  were  hushed, 
there  was  only  to  be  heard  through  the  wide  midday  air 
the  unbroken  treble  of  the  crickets,  across  which  the 
rich  horns  of  the  locusts  shrilled  like  the  elfin  trumpets 
of  a  summer's  state.  Reymund  hitched  his  horse,  found 
a  penetrable  portion  of  the  garden  paling,  and  entered. 

It  was  a  large,  old  garden,  laid  out,  fifty  years  ago, 
perhaps,  in  a  kind  of  pleasance ;  for  in  one  place  a 
slight  hill  rose  above  the  rest,  while  paths  wandered 
round  it  into  new  and  unsuspected  regions ;  in  another 
a  brook  meandered  and  sang  silverly  over  shining  pebbles, 
and  among  arrow-heads  and  lily-pods,  and,  dallying,  went 
its  way  at  last  to  empty  into  some  tide-streak  and  find 
the  sounding  sea  that  called  to  it  all  night.  Weeds,  of 
course,  had  overgrown  the  beds,  the  untrained  grapes 


80  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

hung  heavily  from  wall  and  trellis,  wasps  and  blackbirds 
made  merry  together  with  the  nectar  of  ripening  pears, 
plum  and  peach  dropped  ungathered  from  the  bough ; 
vine  and  tendril,  leaf  and  spray,  and  branch  and  blos- 
som, all  wrought  themselves  to  a  delicious  tangle  of 
perfume  and  rustle  and  color.  Here,  through  the 
beautiful  and  envious  weeds,  a  gladiolus  reared  his 
flames,  a  larkspur  absorbed  the  very  blue,  a  carnation 
scattered  spice ;  here  honeysuckles  still  blew  out  a  per- 
fect fragrance,  while  mourning-brides  and  gillyflowers 
and  spiked  lavender  and  pansies  sowed  the  air  with 
their  old-fashioned  sweetness.  The  soft,  lonely  sky 
stretched  away  over  the  garden  and  the  meadows  to  haze 
itself  round  low  and  distant  woods,  and  all  the  empty 
air  seemed  sad  and  desolate  between,  — the  fulness  and 
richness  of  life  at  its  high  noon  touching  close  upon  the 
anti-climax  of  desert  solitude.  Through  the  place  a 
light  east-wind  was  blowing  that  had  in  it  a  tonic  for  the 
lungs  like  the  sparkle  of  champagne.  And,  somehow, 
through  all  the  spaces  of  the  neglected  garden  the  spell 
of  Orient  seemed  complete.  There  Orient  must  have 
stood  to  twine  that  white  rose  upon  the  porch;  there 
her  fingers  must  have  twinkled  among  the  young  vine- 
leaves  ;  there,  on  that  bank  of  turf,  she  must  many  an 
afternoon  have  sat  at  work ;  there,  in  the  shallow  crys- 
tal of  the  brook,  she  had  waded  with  white  feet  to  set 
the  water-plants.  These  lichen-covered  apple-trees  had 
shed,  how  many  a  springtime,  the  rosy  snow  of  their 
petals  around  her  head ;  these  gnarled  old  bergamots 
had  dropped  their  pulpy  globes  into  her  hands;  this 
nut-tree  put  out  its  leaves  on  the  day  when  she  was 


D'OUTRE   MORT.  81 

born ;  her  little  feet  had  worn  these  paths.  The  garden 
was  the  shadow  of  Orient  herself,  reduced  to  dumb  and 
to  material  things.  He  wondered  what  it  would  be  by 
the  magic  of  moonlight,  —  the  whole  place  silvered  over 
with  tranquil  sheen,  and  raised  from  every  day's  dull 
sight  into  the  dreamy  and  ideal,  —  full  of  cool  dew,  and 
silence,  and  holy  hush,  as  if  it  waited  on  her  white  sleep. 
Just  under  his  feet,  where  the  seed  had  been  thrown  in 
handfuls,  he  traced,  written  out  with  blue  forget-me-nots, 
the  name  of  Orient. 

It  would  not  do  for  him  to  stay  much  longer  here ;  he 
should  grow  wild  with  hopes  and  fancies,  for  all  he  knew, 
tread  out  that  lovely  name  with  his  heel.  She  must,  she 
should  be  won !  He  clutched  a  cluster  of  the  forget-me- 
nots,  quickly  escaped  the  labyrinth,  galloped  back  to  the 
station  at  a  rate  that  streaked  his  chafing  steed,  —  and 
so  away  from  dreams  to  life  and  real  work. 

Thus  Reymund  returned  to  his  routine ;  hills  and  law- 
suits and  politics,  routes  and  rides ;  they  were  not  calcu- 
lated to  lift  him  to  any  higher  level  than  the  old  one. 

And  Orient  and  her  mother  came  home ;  the  mother 
having  made  quite  as  close  acquaintance  with  the  moun- 
tains as  she  cared  to  do. 

Saturdays,  now,  surely  as  they  came,  brought  Rey- 
mund under  the  same  roof  with  Orient.  Perhaps  in 
their  brief  indulgence  he  found  pardon  for  all  the  sins  of 
the  week,  —  for  the  week  had  its  sins,  its  little  trivial 
condoning  of  misdemeanors  as  unimportant,  matters 
which  lower  one  as  steadily  and  certainly  over  the  great 
pit,  as  block  and  tackle  might  do  over  another.  On 
Sunday  nights,  when  he  glided  away  in  the  outward 
4*  F 


82  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

train,  he  felt  as  if  it  were  an  easy  thing  to  maintain  the 
height  which,  by  Orient's  side,  he  gained ;  but  after 
a  Monday  morning  on  the  exchange,  after  a  Tuesday 
night  in  the  salon,  after  his  evening  gallop  on  the  horse 
possessed  with  the  spirit  of  Satan,  he  said  to  himself, 
"  It  is  of  no  use.  Nature  is  too  crude  in  me,  too  gross 
a  strain,  too  deep  a  dye.  I  should  be  like  Shelley's  rock 
in  the  black  abyss,  that 

'  Has  from  unimaginable  years 
Sustained  itself  with  terror  and  with  toil 
Over  a  gulf,  and,  with  the  agony 
With  which  it  clings,  seems  slowly  coming  down.' 

The  thing  is  to  abandon."  Yet  Saturday's  sunset  shone 
for  him  again  always  over  Orient's  garden. 

He  had  come  one  evening  and  found  Orient  among 
the  grape-vines,  playing  with  a  parcel  of  little  children, 
as  pretty,  bright,  and  fresh  as  a  bunch  of  flowers.  After 
the  hubbub  of  business,  the  dust  of  travel,  this  garden, 
in  a  far  outlying  city  suburb  stretching  towards  the  sea, 
seemed  as  pure  and  innocent  as  Eden.  On  Sunday 
morning,  when  the  air  soared  illumined  with  a  stiller 
lustre,  when  the  azure  deepened  as  if  fresh-washed  by 
sacred  rains  and  dews,  when  the  winds  bore  no  murmur 
but  that  of  ripening  leaf  and  floating  petal,  when  the 
birds  themselves  seemed  to  sing  in  the  Sabbath,  and  all 
the  wide  world  to  be  gladly  and  tranquilly  conscious  of 
the  day,  — they  went  to  church  together.  If  Orient  was 
rapt  in  the  worship,  Reymund  was  at  an  exaltation  as 
high  for  him,  —  rapt  in  his  worship  of  her.  By  times 
this  very  thing  lifted  him  into  the  upper  region,  Ids  soul 


D'OUTEE    MOET.  83 

rose  buoyant  on  the  prayer  and  praise,  and  floated  for- 
ward like  a  waif  on  the  full  tide  of  the  organ's  music. 
When,  afterward,  he  found  himself  and  his  sentience 
again,  he  said  the  thing  was  in  him,  —  could  he  but  keep 
the  pitch,  — were  Orient  forever  by  him  to  give  him  that 
key-note.  But  alone  we  come  into  this  world,  alone  we 
go  out  of  it.  Neither  Orient  nor  another  could,  for  all 
eternity,  give  the  tone  to  any  soul ;  that  discord  or  that 
harmony  which  one  shall  make  must  be  the  result  of 
one's  own  being. 

He  sat  with  Orient,  in  the  afternoon,  on  the  bank  of 
turf  that  sloped  down  to  the  clear,  brown  brook,  in  whose 
bed  many  a  diving  and  dipping  sunbeam  wrought  mosa- 
ics of  light  and  shade  with  the  shining  pebbles.  The 
brook  rustled  and  lilted  on  its  way,  a  bird  above  it  turned 
its  burden  into  melody,  now  and  then  a  waft  of  wind 
rippled  all  its  course  till  the  lily  leaves  shivered  and 
turned  up  their  crimson  linings,  soft  clouds  chased  one 
another  across  the  sky,  —  everything  around  wore  the 
bloom  of  peace  and  pleasure. 

"I  often  fear,"  said  Reymund,  "that  I  must  come 
nere  no  more.  The  place  grows  too  dear  for  one  that 
must  some  day  leave  it." 

Orient  turned  and  looked  at  him.  He  saw  her  trem- 
ble. "  Not  come  here  any  more  !  "  she  said. 

"  Ah,  Orient ! "  he  cried,  "  once  I  declared  to  you 
the  purpose  of  my  life.  Sometimes  —  now  —  sometimes 
—  it  seems  to  me  as  if  you  were  almost  won." 

He  bent  above  her,  glowing  and  passionate  and  dar- 
ing. She  trembled  again,  neither  drew  away,  uor  sur- 
rendered  herself  to  the  waiting  grasp. 


84  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  answered  him,  the  globy  tears 
suffusing  her  eyes  till  each  one  shone  like  the  great  star 
that  hung  its  blue  lamp  in  the  zenith  that  night  when 
they  were  lost  upon  the  mountain.  "  Perhaps  I  cannot 
read  my  heart ;  but  does  a  woman  really  love  that  which 
is  less  strong  than  herself  ?  I  must  lean  upon  my  hus- 
band, not  he  on  me." 

"  Am  I  so  weak  ?  "  asked  Reymund,  with  some  bit- 
terness, and  a  quiver  on  his  lip.  "  Consider.  If  your 
own  nature  had  been  invested  with  a  coarser  flesh,  left 
out  thereby  to  coarser  temptations,  —  since  passions  are 
things  of  the  flesh,  —  what  would  have  come  of  it? 
Then,  if  thrown  in  the  midst  of  the  revel,  loving  the 
flash  of  merriment,  the  excitement  of  chance,  and  wine 
and  dice  were  going  round  —  But,  no  !  such  speech  is 
profanity.  Yet,  Orient,  under  all  habit,  under  all  action, 
I  think  there  is  that  in  my  soul  akin  to  yours,  made  to 
rule  it  and  absorb  it,  hidden  by  the  body;  but  there, 
—made  to  be  loved  by  you,  as  you,  all  of  you,  flaws 
and  beauties,  are  loved  by  me ! " 

"If  I  could  only  see  your  soul,"  said  Orient,  half 
yielding,  contrite,  yet  uncertain. 

"  One  day  perhaps  you  will,"  answered  Reymund,  his 
repeater  giving  the  hour  to  his  finger-pressure.  "  Now 
I  must  go." 

He  rose,  stooped  again  and  touched  her  smooth,  cold 
forehead  with  his  mouth.  The  touch  sent  the  blood 
back  to  his  heart.  "  With  time,"  he  murmured.  "  O, 
with  time!  she  shall  yet  —  she  shall!  Good  by, — till 
Saturday  again  at  five  o'clock ! "  and  then  was  gone. 

All  that  week  Reymund  walked  through  his  work 


D'OUTRE   MORT.  85 

with  an  absent  mind,  as  if  his  spirit  had  half  left  his 
body,  disengaging  itself  from  the  automaton  of  bone 
and  muscle,  as  one  might  say;  abstracted  and  lost  in 
his  thoughts,  his  wishes,  his  absolute  resolutions.  Old 
haunts  had  no  attraction  for  him,  old  faces  brought  him 
no  satisfaction,  he  sought  no  pleasure  but  such  as  was 
to  be  found  on  the  back  of  that  horse  possessed  by  the 
spirit  of  Satan.  And  so  he  existed  till  the  sunrise  of 
Saturday,  when,  before  it  should  be  quite  time  for  the 
train,  he  had  the  horse  brought  round  for  a  gallop,  as 
if  he  would  ride  the  wind  and  tame  the  whirlwind. 

In  the  mean  time  Orient  pursued  her  way  in  what,  fot 
her,  was  perturbation.  There  seemed  to  be  a  riddle  in 
these  days  beyond  her  reading.  Penitent  over  her  pride 
in  presuming  herself  to  be  stronger  than  her  lover,  con- 
scious that  she  could  not  dispense  with  him,  yet  full  as 
sure  that  she  felt  no  perfect  passion  for  him,  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  marvel  what  it  meant.  "  I  am  drawn 
to  him,"  she  said  to  herself.  "Ah,  I  know  that  well 
enough !  But  have  I  any  right  to  be  ?  If  there  were 
something  to  confirm  me !  If  I  thought  the  good  and 
beautiful  part  were  any  abiding  principle,  were  anything 
but  love  of  me !  If  I  could  only  see  his  soul !  " 

She  was  walking  that  Saturday  afternoon  in  the  woods 
that  could  be  seen  from  her  garden  across  the  meadows. 
It  was  a  clear  October  afternoon,  the  red  leaves  were 
dropping  round  her  and  leaving  the  bright  blue  sky 
/nore  bare  with  every  gentle  gust  that  brought  them  to 
her  feet;  a  bracing  day  of  early  autumn,  when  the 
wind  fainted  with  the  sweet  freight  of  balsam  from  the 
pines,  and  all  things  only  prophesied  hope  and  light* 


86  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

eomeness.  In  spite  of  this,  Orient  could  not  tell  why 
she  had  a  constant  sensation  of  gray  and  misty  horizons, 
of  marshy  air  and  cold  sea-wind  all  day ;  as  she  walkei 
now,  the  fitful  breeze  in  the  tree-tops  seemed  the  muffled 
murmur  of  waves  on  the  distant  beach,  and  once  in  a 
while  she  shivered  as  if  a  cold  foam-wreath  were  flying 
by  her  face.  She  thought  at  first  that  all  this  damp  and 
drear  sensation  was  some  sympathy  with  Reymund,  now 
travelling  along  the  sea-coast  on  his  way  to  her.  "  But 
what  absurdity !  "  she  said.  "  Where  the  track  lies,  the 
sky  is  as  blue  as  this  one ;  the  wind  is  scarcely  more 
chilly  there  than  here.  Reymund  is  rolling  along,  com- 
fortable among  his  cushions  and  books  ;  and  not  a  naked 
spirit  all  abroad  in  the  sea-scented  air  !  "• 

She  went  home  on  the  causeway  that  was  laid  along 
the  meadows,  —  hurrying  a  little,  for  she  judged  by  the 
sinking  sun  that  it  must  be  nearly  time  for  the  arrival 
of  the  train.  As  she  went,  she  heard  her  name  called. 

She  turned,  for  the  voice  seemed  to  come  from  the 
woods.  But  seeing  no  one,  she  fancied  the  note  of 
some  bird  had  followed  her. 

Again  the  sound.  Her  name ;  and  Reymund' s  voice. 
"He  has  come,"  thought  Orient,  with  a  thrill  of  un- 
suspected pleasure,  "and  he  is  calling  me  from  the 
garden."  And  she  made  all  haste  to  answer  the  sum- 
mons in  person.  Going  along,  then,  with  her  boughs 
of  bright  leaves,  she  wished  she  had  not  delayed  so  long 
hi  the  woods,  —  her  dress  so  soiled,  and  her  hands,  her 
hair  so  disordered ;  she  resolved  to  steal  in  at  the  side 
door  and  freshen  her  toilet  before  greeting  him.  As  the 
door  was  opened  to  her,  "  Mr.  Reymund  has  come,"  said 


D'OTJTRE    MOET.  87 

the  maid,  gleefully.  "I  have  just  let  him  in.  He  is 
waiting  in  the  drawing-room." 

"  Very  well,"  answered  Orient.  "  Tell  him  I  will  be 
there  directly." 

She  hastened  towards  the  staircase,  boughs  in  hand. 

"  You  have  n't  seen  your  friend  ? "  asked  her  aunt, 
passing  her  on  the  landing  as  she  sped  up. 

"  No,"  replied  Orient  again ;  "  have  you  ?  " 

"I  just  met  him  in  the  hall  as  he  was  entering  the 
drawing-room,"  said  the  good  woman,  calling  over  the 
balusters  and  going  her  way. 

Orient  hurried  at  her  bath,  clad  herself  with  all  de- 
spatch, and  put  on  a  garment  whose  airy  frills  and  ruffles 
made  her  look  like  a  white  rose.  As  she  went  by  her 
mother's  room,  the  mother  looked  out  and  said,  lightly, 
"  Reymund  has  come.  Did  you  know  it  ?  " 

"Yes,  mamma,"  she  answered.  "Why  didn't  you 
go  and  make  him  welcome  ? " 

"  O,  my  hair  was  all  down ! "  said  the  other.  "  I  just 
caught  a  glimpse  of  him,  passing  the  foot  of  the  stairs  as 
he  went  into  the  drawing-room." 

So  Orient  stepped  slowly  down,  adjusting  her  bracelets 
as  she  went.  She  saw  Reymund  a  second,  as  the  wind- 
ing way  of  the  stairs  for  that  space  allowed  her,  standing 
in  the  bay-window  and  looking  out.  She  did  not  know 
what  made  her  so  hesitate  to  enter.  She  paused  a  mo- 
ment longer  in  the  doorway,  gazing  in. 

The  room  was  very  gay  with  bunches  of  deep-blue  and 
scarlet  salvia,  and  drooping  clusters  of  barberry  boughs 
stringing  their  splendid  pendants  all  along  most  graceful 
curves;  but  there  was  another  brightness  than  that  in 


88  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

the  room.  It  was  where  Reymund  stood  in  the  embra- 
sure of  the  window,  with  the  late  sunlight  falling  all 
over  him.  She  wondered  that  he  did  not  advance  to 
meet  her ;  but,  as  she  wondered,  went  up  the  room  to- 
ward him. 

"Something  must  have  happened  to  make  him  very 
happy,"  thought  Orient.  "  I  never  saw  such  a  smile  !  " 

Perhaps  it  was  this  smile  that  so  transfigured  him ;  a 
plain  man  commonly,  the  sunshine  now  seemed  to  bring 
out  rich,  dark  tints  on  the  countenance,  the  eyes  over- 
flowed with  light,  and  whether  it  were  grace  of  posture, 
overlying  sunshine,  or  beaming  smile,  features  and  face 
and  figure  expressed  a  subtle  harmony,  and  the  man  was 
beautiful,  — beautiful  as  a  strong  angel  pictured  in  some 
instant  of  stooping  flight. 

"  He  does  not  mean  to  speak  till  I  do,"  thought 
Orient  again. 

But  as  she  drew  near,  the  smile  changed  to  a  look  of 
utter  melancholy,  as  a  shining  cloud  melts  into  rain,  —  a 
melancholy  gaze  that  pierced  her  through  and  through. 
She  put  out  her  hand,  nevertheless,  to  take  his  extended 
grasp. 

And  there  was  nothing  there ! 

In  the  same  instant,  with  a  loud  and  terrible  voice, 
crying,  "  Orient ! "  —  a  voice  as  if  it  were  the  voice  of 
death,  the  tomb,  and  all  corruption,  —  the  thing  had 
vanished ;  the  place  was  empty ! 

That  cry  rang  through  the  house,  that  loud  and  ter- 
rible voice.  Maid  and  mother  rushed  into  the  room; 
and  they  found  no  one  there  but  Orient,  fallen  uncon- 
scious to  the  floor. 


D'OUTRE    MORT.  89 

It  did  not  take  long  to  revive  the  child.  "  Something 
has  happened  to  Reymund,"  she  said,  upon  lifting  her 
head.  "  We  must  go  to  him  at  once ! " 

"  My  love ! "  cried  her  mother.  "  The  idea  of  the 
thing.  The  —  " 

But  expostulations  were  wasted  breath;  while  they 
were  being  made,  Orient  was  calmly  getting  on  her  trav- 
elling-gown, and,  seeing  herself  powerless,  the  mother 
—  with  her  heart  palpitating  in  the  ends  of  her  fingers 
through  awe  and  through  alarm,  and  interweaving  with 
the  ejaculations  that  escaped  her  chattering  teeth  a  thou- 
sand instructions  to  her  quaking  maid  and  sister  —  has- 
tened to  do  likewise  and  be  off  with  her. 

Thus  it  happened  that  the  telegram  from  Reymund's 
brother  crossed  the  travellers  on  their  way;  and  they 
reached  his  brother's  house  in  the  gray  of  the  shivering 
morning. 

It  was  just  as  Orient's  heart  had  told  her.  Reymund 
had  been  thrown  from  his  horse  on  the  previous  morning, 
striking  his  head  on  a  curbstone's  edge ;  he  had  been 
taken  up  senseless,  and  had  lain  since  then  in  a  stupor 
only  broken  by  his  twice  calling  her  name  in  the  after- 
noon. At  a  little  after  five  o'clock  he  had  risen  on  the 
pillow,  and  in  a  loud  and  terrible  voice  had  called  Orient 
again,  and  then  had  fallen  back;  and  whether  he  were 
dead  or  alive  there  was  no  one  able  to  say. 

Orient  threw  off  her  hat  and  shawl  and  stole  into  the 
apartment  where  Reymund  had  been  placed.  The  white 
face  that  fastened  her  eye  was  still  as  a  mask  of  clay,  and 
there  was  stamped  upon  it  that  look  of  unutterable  mel- 
ancholy into  which  she  had  seen  the  smile  fade  yesterday, 


90  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

—  the  linen  where  it  lay  was  less  white,  a  marble  image 
had  been  less  still.  As  Orient  bent  there  her  breath 
stirred  the  dark  lock  of  hair  on  the  brow,  and  the  slight 
and  airy  motion  of  itself  brought  into  forceful  being  all 
the  awful  immobility  and  silence  of  death. 

"  He  does  not  breathe !  His  heart  does  not  beat ! 
Will  he  never  open  his  eyes  again  P"  she  said.  "O 
Reymund,  Reymund,  I  love  you!" 

She  bent  nearer  as  she  sighed  the  words,  and  her  lips 
were  sealed  to  his. 

A  quiver  ran  through  all  the  frozen  frame  reposing 
there  beside  her,  a  pulse  of  warmth,  perhaps,  played  in 
the  hand  hers  clasped ;  the  eyelids  shook  and  lifted  and 
unveiled  the  dark  and  woful  eyes. 

"You  have  seen  my  soul,  Orient,"  said  Reymund. 
"  Good  by." 

The  dark  and  woful  eyes  were  veiled  again.  And  this 
time  Reymund's  soul  was  gone  beyond  recall. 


THE  FAIL  OP  THE  HOUSE  OP  USHER. 


BY  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

Son  eceur  eat  un  luth  suspendu ; 
Sit6t  qu'on  le  touche  il  rfisonne. 

DE  BERA.NGEB. 

UEING  the  whole  of  a  dull,  dark,  and  soundless 
day  in  the  autumn  of  the  year,  when  the  clouds 
hung  oppressively  low  in  the  heavens,  I  had  been 
passing  alone,  on  horseback,  through  a  singularly  dreary 
tract  of  country ;  and  at  length  found  myself,  as  the  shades 
of  the  evening  drew  on,  within  view  of  the  melancholy 
House  of  Usher.  I  know  not  how  it  was,  but,  with  the 
first  glimpse  of  the  building,  a  sense  of  insufferable  gloom 
pervaded  my  spirit.  I  say  insufferable ;  for  the  feeling  was 
unrelieved  by  any  of  that  half-pleasurable,  because  poetic, 
sentiment,  with  which  the  mind  usually  receives  even  the 
sternest  natural  images  of  the  desolate  or  terrible.  I 
looked  upon  the  scene  before  me,  —  upon  the  mere  house 
and  the  simple  landscape  features  of  the  domain,  —  upon 
the  bleak  walls,  —  upon  the  vacant,  eye-like  windows,  — • 
upon  a  few  rank  sedges,  —  and  upon  a  few  white  trunks 
of  decayed  trees,  —  with  an  utter  depression  of  soul 


92  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

which  I  can  compare  to  no  earthly  sensation  more  prop- 
erly than  to  the  after-dream  of  the  reveller  upon  opium, 

—  the   bitter  lapse  into  every -day  life,  —  the  hideous 
dropping  off  of  the  veil.    There  was  an  iciness,  a  sink- 
ing, a  sickening  of  the  heart,  —  an  unredeemed  dreari- 
ness of  thought  which  no  goading  of  the  imagination 
could  torture  into  aught  of  the  sublime.    What  was  it, 

—  I  paused  to  think,  —  what  was  it  that  so  unnerved 
me  in  the  contemplation  of  the  House  of  Usher  P    It  was 
a  mystery  all  insoluble;   nor  could  I  grapple  with  the 
shadowy  fancies  that  crowded  upon  me  as  I  pondered. 
I  was  forced  to  fall  back  upon  the  unsatisfactory  conclu- 
sion that,  while,  beyond  doubt,  there  are  combinations 
of  very  simple  natural  objects  which  have  the  power  of 
thus  affecting  us,  still  the  analysis  of  this  power  lies 
among  considerations  beyond  our  depth.     It  was  possi- 
ble, I  reflected,  that  a  mere  different  arrangement  of  the 
particulars  of  the  scene,  of  the  details  of  the  picture, 
would  be  sufficient  to  modify,  or  perhaps  to  annihilate,  its 
capacity  for  sorrowful  impression ;  and,  acting  upon  this 
idea,  I  reined  my  horse  to  the  precipitous  brink  of  a 
black  and  lurid  tarn  that  lay  in  unruffled  lustre  by  the 
dwelling,  and  gazed  down  —  but  with  a  shudder  even 
more  thrilling  than  before  —  upon  the  remodelled  and 
inverted  images  of  the  gray  sedge  and  the  ghastly  tree- 
stems  and  the  vacant  and  eye-like  windows. 

Nevertheless,  in  this  mansion  of  gloom  I  now  proposed 
to  myself  a  sojourn  of  some  weeks.  Its  proprietor,  Rod- 
erick Usher,  had  been  one  of  my  boon  companions  in 
boyhood;  but  many  years  had  elapsed  since  our  last 
meeting.  A  letter,  however,  had  lately  reached  me  in 


THE    FALL   OP   THE    HOUSE   OF   USHER.        93 

a  distant  part  of  the  country,  —  a  letter  from  him,  — 
which,  in  its  wildly  importunate  nature,  had  admitted  of 
no  other  than  a  personal  reply.  The  manuscript  gave 
evidence  of  nervous  agitation.  The  writer  spoke  of  acute 
bodily  illness,  —  of  a  mental  disorder  which  oppressed 
him,  —  and  of  an  earnest  desire  to  see  me,  as  his  best, 
and  indeed  his  only  personal  friend,  with  a  view  of  at- 
tempting, by  the  cheerfulness  of  my  society,  some  allevi- 
ation of  his  malady.  It  was  the  manner  in  which  all 
this,  and  much  more,  was  said,  —  it  was  the  apparent 
heart  that  went  with  his  request,  —  which  allowed  me  no 
room  for  hesitation ;  and  I  accordingly  obeyed  forthwith 
what  I  still  considered  a  very  singular  summons. 

Although  as  boys  we  had  been  even  intimate  asso- 
ciates, yet  I  really  knew  little  of  my  friend.  His  reserve 
had  been  always  excessive  and  habitual.  I  was  aware, 
however,  that  his  very  ancient  family  had  been  noted, 
time  out  of  mind,  for  a  peculiar  sensibility  of  tempera- 
ment, displaying  itself,  through  long  ages,  in  many  works 
of  exalted  art,  and  manifested,  of  late,  in  repeated  deeds 
of  munificent  yet  unobtrusive  charity,  as  well  as  in  a 
passionate  devotion  to  the  intricacies,  perhaps  even  more 
than  to  the  orthodox  and  easily  recognizable  beauties,  of 
musical  science.  I  had  learned,  too,  the  very  remarkable 
fact  that  the  stem  of  the  Usher  race,  all  time-honored  as 
it  was,  had  put  forth,  at  no  period,  any  enduring  branch ; 
in  other  words,  that  the  entire  family  lay  in  the  direct 
line  of  descent,  and  had  always,  with  very  trifling  and 
very  temporary  variation,  so  kin.  It  was  this  deficiency, 
I  considered,  while  running  over  in  thought  the  perfect 
keeping  of  the  character  of  the  premises  with  the  ac- 


94  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

credited  character  of  the  people,  and  while  speculating 
upon  the  possible  influence  which  the  one,  in  the  long 
lapse  of  centuries,  might  have  exercised  upon  the  other, 

—  it  was  this  deficiency,  perhaps,  of  collateral  issue,  and 
the  consequent  undeviating  transmission,  from  sire  to 
son,  of  the  patrimony  with  the  name,  which  had,  at 
length,  so  identified  the  two  as  to  merge  the  original  title 
of  the  estate  in  the  quaint  and  equivocal  appellation  of 
the  "  House  of  Usher,"  —  an  appellation  which  seemed 
to  include,  in  the  minds  of  the  peasantry  who  used  it, 
both  the  family  and  the  family  mansion. 

I  have  said  that  the  sole  effect  of  my  somewhat  childish 
experiment  —  that  of  looking  down  within  the  tarn  — 
had  been  to  deepen  the  first  singular  impression.  There 
can  be  no  doubt  that  the  consciousness  of  the  rapid  in- 
crease of  my  superstition — for  why  should  I  not  so  term 
it  ?  —  served  mainly  to  accelerate  the  increase  itself. 
Such,  I  have  long  known,  is  the  paradoxical  law  of  all 
sentiments  having  terror  as  a  basis.  And  it  might  have 
been  for  this  reason  only  that,  when  I  again  uplifted  my 
eyes  to  the  house  itself,  from  its  image  in  the  pool,  there 
grew  in  my  mind  a  strange  fancy,  —  a  fancy  so  ridicu- 
lous, indeed,  that  I  but  mention  it  to  show  the  vivid 
force  of  the  sensations  which  oppressed  me.  I  had  so 
worked  upon  my  imagination  as  really  to  believe  that 
about  the  whole  mansion  and  domain  hung  an  atmos- 
phere peculiar  to  themselves  and  their  immediate  vicinity, 

—  an  atmosphere  which  had  no  affinity  with  the  air  of 
heaven,  but  which  had  reeked  up  from  the  decayed  trees 
and  the  gray  wall  and  the  silent  tarn,  —  a  pestilent  and 
mystic  vapor,  dull,   sluggish,  faintly  discernible,  and 
leaden-hued. 


THE    FALL   OF   THE    HOUSE    OF   USHER.        95 

Shaking  off  from  my  spirit  what  must  have  been  a 
dream,  I  scanned  more  narrowly  the  real  aspect  of  the 
building.  Its  principal  feature  seemed  to  be  that  of  an 
excessive  antiquity.  The  discoloration  of  ages  had  been 
great.  Minute  fungi  overspread  the  whole  exterior, 
hanging  in  a  fine,  tangled  web-work  from  the  eaves. 
Yet  all  this  was  apart  from  any  extraordinary  dilapida- 
tion. No  portion  of  the  masonry  had  fallen ;  and  there 
appeared  to  be  a  wild  inconsistency  between  its  still  per- 
fect adaptation  of  parts  and  the  crumbling  condition  of 
the  individual  stones.  In  this  there  was  much  that 
reminded  me  of  the  specious  totality  of  old  woodwork 
which  has  rotted  for  long  years  in  some  neglected  vault, 
with  no  disturbance  from  the  breath  of  the  external  air. 
Beyond  this  indication  of  extensive  decay,  however,  the 
fabric  gave  little  token  of  instability.  Perhaps  the  eye 
of  a  scrutinizing  observer  might  have  discovered  a  barely 
perceptible  fissure,  which,  extending  from  the  roof  of  the 
building  in  front,  made  its  way  down  the  wall  in  a  zigzag 
direction,  until  it  became  lost  in  the  sullen  waters  of  the 
tarn. 

Noticing  these  things,  I  rode  over  a  short  causeway  to 
the  house.  A  servant  in  waiting  took  my  horse,  and  I 
entered  the  Gothic  archway  of  the  hall.  A  valet,  of 
stealthy  step,  thence  conducted  me,  in  silence,  through 
many  dark  and  intricate  passages  in  my  progress  to  the 
studio  of  his  master.  Much  that  I  encountered  on  the 
way  contributed,  I  know  not  how,  to  heighten  the  vague 
sentiments  of  which  I  have  already  spoken.  While  the 
objects  around  me,  —  while  the  carvings  of  the  ceilings, 
the  sombre  tapestries  of  the  walls,  the  ebon  blackness  of 


96  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

the  floors,  and  the  phantasmagoric  armorial  trophies 
which  rattled  as  I  strode,  were  but  matters  to  which,  or 
to  such  as  which,  I  had  been  accustomed  from  my  infan- 
Cy}  —  while  I  hesitated  not  to  acknowledge  how  familiar 
was  all  this,  I  still  wondered  to  find  how  unfamiliar  were 
the  fancies  which  ordinary  images  were  stirring  up.  On 
one  of  the  staircases,  I  met  the  physician  of  the  family. 
His  countenance,  I  thought,  wore  a  mingled  expression 
of  low  cunning  and  perplexity.  He  accosted  me  with 
trepidation,  and  passed  on.  The  valet  now  threw  open 
a  door  and  ushered  me  into  the  presence  of  his  master. 

The  room  in  which  I  found  myself  was  very  large  and 
lofty.  The  windows  were  long,  narrow,  and  pointed, 
and  at  so  vast  a  distance  from  the  black  oaken  floor  as 
to  be  altogether  inaccessible  from  within.  Feeble  gleams 
of  encrimsoned  light  made  their  way  through  the  trellised 
panes,  and  served  to  render  sufliciently  distinct  the  more 
prominent  objects  around;  the  eye,  however,  struggled 
in  vain  to  reach  the  remoter  angles  of  the  chamber,  or 
the  recesses  of  the  vaulted  and  fretted  ceiling.  Dark 
draperies  hung  upon  the  walls.  The  general  furniture 
was  profuse,  comfortless,  antique,  and  tattered.  Many 
books  and  musical  instruments  lay  scattered  about,  but 
failed  to  give  any  vitality  to  the  scene.  I  felt  that  I 
breathed  an  atmosphere  of  sorrow.  An  air  of  stern, 
deep,  and  irredeemable  gloom  hung  over  and  pervaded 
all. 

Upon  my  entrance,  Usher  arose  from  a  sofa  on  which 
he  had  been  lying  at  full  length,  and  greeted  me  with  a 
vivacious  warmth  which  had  much  in  it,  I  at  first  thought, 
of  an  overdone  cordiality,  —  of  the  constrained  effort  of 


THE   FALL  OF  THE   HOUSE   OF  USHER.        97 

the  ennitye  man  of  the  world.  A  glance,  however,  at  his 
countenance,  convinced  me  of  his  perfect  sincerity.  We 
sat  down ;  and  for  some  moments,  while  he  spoke  not,  I 
gazed  upon  him  with  a  feeling  half  of  pity,  half  of  awe. 
Surely,  man  had  never  before  so  terribly  altered,  in  so 
brief  a  period,  as  had  Roderick  Usher!  It  was  with 
difficulty  that  I  could  bring  myself  to  admit  the  identity 
of  the  wan  being  before  me  with  the  companion  of  my 
early  boyhood.  Yet  the  character  of  his  face  had  been 
at  all  times  remarkable.  A  cadaverousness  of  complex- 
ion ;  an  eye  large,  liquid,  and  luminous  beyond  compar- 
ison ;  lips  somewhat  thin  and  very  pallid,  but  of  a  sur- 
passingly beautiful  curve ;  a  nose  of  a  delicate  Hebrew 
model,  but  with  a  breadth  of  nostril  unusual  in  similar 
formations  ;  a  finely  moulded  chin,  speaking,  in  its  want 
of  prominence,  of  a  want  of  moral  energy ;  hair  of  a  more 
than  web-like  softness  and  tenuity ;  — these  features,  with 
an  inordinate  expansion  above  the  regions  of  the  temple, 
made  up  altogether  a  countenance  not  easily  to  be  for- 
gotten. And  now  in  the  mere  exaggeration  of  the  pre- 
vailing character  of  these  features,  and  of  the  expression 
they  were  wont  to  convey,  lay  so  much  of  change  that  I 
doubted  to  whom  I  spoke.  The  now  ghastly  pallor  of 
the  skin,  and  the  now  miraculous  lustre  of  the  eye,  above 
all  things  startled  and  even  awed  me.  The  silken  hair, 
too,  had  been  suffered  to  grow  all  unheeded,  and  as,  in 
its  wild  gossamer  texture,  it  floated  rather  than  fell  about 
the  face,  I  could  not,  even  with  effort,  connect  its  Ara- 
besque expression  with  any  idea  of  simple  humanity. 

In  the  manner  of  my  friend  1  was  at  once  struck  with 
an  incoherence,  —  an  inconsistency ;  and  I  soon  found 

TOL.  II.  5  O 


98  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

this  to  arise  from  a  series  of  feeble  and  futile  struggles 
to  overcome  an  habitual  trepidancy,  —  an  excessive 
nervous  agitation.  For  something  of  this  nature  I  had 
indeed  been  prepared,  no  less  by  his  letter  than  by  remi- 
niscences of  certain  boyish  traits,  and  by  conclusions 
deduced  from  his  peculiar  physical  conformation  and 
temperament.  His  action  was  alternately  vivacious  and 
sullen.  His  voice  varied  rapidly  from  a  tremulous  inde- 
cision (when  the  animal  spirits  seemed  utterly  in  abey- 
ance) to  that  species  of  energetic  concision,  —  that 
abrupt,  weighty,  unhurried,  and  hollow-sounding  enunci- 
ation, —  that  leaden,  self-balanced,  and  perfectly  mod- 
ulated guttural  utterance,  which  may  be  observed  in  the 
lost  drunkard,  or  the  irreclaimable  eater  of  opium,  dur- 
ing the  periods  of  his  most  intense  excitement. 

It  was  thus  that  he  spoke  of  the  object  of  my  visit,  of 
his  earnest  desire  to  see  me,  and  of  the  solace  he  ex- 
pected me  to  afford  him.  He  entered,  at  some  length,  into 
what  he  conceived  to  be  the  nature  of  his  malady.  It 
was,  he  said,  a  constitutional  and  a  family  evil,  and  one 
for  which  he  despaired  to  find  a  remedy,  —  a  mere  ner- 
vous affection,  he  immediately  added,  which  would 
undoubtedly  soon  pass  off.  It  displayed  itself  in  a  host 
of  unnatural  sensations.  Some  of  these,  as  he  detailed 
them,  interested  and  bewildered  me  ;  although,  perhaps, 
the  terms,  and  the  general  manner  of  the  narration  had 
their  weight.  He  suffered  much  from  a  morbid  acuteness 
of  the  senses ;  the  most  insipid  food  was  alone  endurable  ; 
he  could  wear  only  garments  of  certain  texture ;  the 
odors  of  all  flowers  were  oppressive  ;  his  eyes  were  tor- 
tured  by  even  a  faint  light ;  and  there  were  but  peculiar 


THE    FALL   OP   THE    HOUSE    OF   USHER.        99 

sounds,  and  these  from  stringed  instruments,  which  did 
not  inspire  him  with  horror. 

To  an  anomalous  species  of  terror  I  found  him  a 
bounden  slave.  "  I  shall  perish,"  said  he,  "  I  must  per- 
ish in  this  deplorable  folly.  Thus,  thus,  and  not  other- 
wise, shall  I  be  lost.  I  dread  the  events  of  the  future, 
not  in  themselves,  but  in  their  results.  I  shudder  at  the 
thought  of  any,  even  the  most  trivial,  incident,  which 
may  operate  upon  this  intolerable  agitation  of  soul.  I 
have,  indeed,  no  abhorrence  of  danger,  except  in  its  ab- 
solute eifect,  —  in  terror.  In  this  unnerved,  in  this 
pitiable  condition,  I  feel  that  the  period  will  sooner  or 
later  arrive  when  I  must  abandon  life  and  reason  togeth- 
er, in  some  struggle  with  the  grim  phantasm,  FEAK." 

I  learned,  moreover,  at  intervals,  and  through  broken 
and  equivocal  hints,  another  singular  feature  of  his  men- 
tal condition.  He  was  enchained  by  certain  superstitious 
impressions  in  regard  to  the  dwelling  which  he  tenanted, 
and  whence,  for  many  years,  he  had  never  ventured  forth, 

—  in  regard  to  an  influence  whose  suposititious  force 
was  conveyed  in  terms  too  shadowy  here  to  be  restated, 

—  an  influence  which  some  peculiarities  in  the  mere  form 
and  substance  of  his  family  mansion  had,  by  dint  of  long 
sufferance,  he  said,  obtained  over  his  spirit,  —  an  effect 
which  the  physique  of  the  gray  walls  and  turrets,  and  of 
the  dim  tarn  into  which  they  all  looked  down,  had  at 
length  brought  about  upon  the  morale  of  his  existence. 

He  admitted,  however,  although  with  hesitation,  that 
much  of  the  peculiar  gloom  which  thus  afflicted  him 
could  be  traced  to  a  more  natural  and  far  more  palpable 
origin,  —  to  the  severe  and  long-continued  illness  — 


100  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

indeed  to  the  evidently  approaching  dissolution  —  of  a 
tenderly  beloved  sister,  —  his  sole  companion  for  long 
years,  —  his  last  and  only  relative  on  earth.  "  Her 
decease,"  he  said  with  a  bitterness  which  I  can  never 
forget,  "would  leave  him  (him  the  hopeless  and  the 
frail)  the  last  of  the  ancient  race  of  the  Ushers."  While 
he  spoke,  the  lady  Madeline  (for  so  was  she  called) 
passed  slowly  through  a  remote  portion  of  the  apartment, 
and,  without  having  noticed  my  presence,  disappeared. 
I  regarded  her  with  an  utter  astonishment,  not  unmin- 
gled  with  dread,  —  and  yet  I  found  it  impossible  to 
account  for  such  feelings.  A  sensation  of  stupor  op- 
pressed me,  as  my  eyes  followed  her  retreating  steps. 
When  a  door,  at  length,  closed  upon  her,  my  glance 
sought  instinctively  and  eagerly  the  countenance  of  the 
brother ;  but  he  had  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  I 
could  only  perceive  that  a  far  more  than  ordinary  wanness 
had  overspread  the  emaciated  fingers  through  which 
trickled  many  passionate  tears. 

The  disease  of  the  lady  Madeline  had  long  baffled  the 
skill  of  her  physicians.  A  settled  apathy,  a  gradual  wast- 
ing away  of  the  person,  and  frequent  although  transient 
affections  of  a  partially  cataleptical  character,  were  the 
unusual  diagnosis.  Hitherto  she  had  steadily  borne  up 
against  the  pressure  of  her  malady,  and  had  not  betaken 
herself  finally  to  bed ;  but,  on  the  closing  in  of  the  even- 
ing of  my  arrival  at  the  house,  she  succumbed  (as  her 
brother  told  me  at  night  with  inexpressible  agitation) 
to  the  prostrating  power  of  the  destroyer ;  and  I  learned 
that  the  glimpse  I  had  obtained  of  her  person  would 
thus  probably  be  the  last  I  should  obtain,  —  that  the 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.   101 

lady,  at  least  while  living,  would  be  seen  by  me  no 
more. 

For  several  days  ensuing,  her  name  was  unmentioned 
by  either  Usher  or  myself;  and  during  this  period  I  was 
busied  in  earnest  endeavors  to  alleviate  the  melancholy 
of  my  friend.  We  painted  and  read  together;  or  I 
listened,  as  if  in  a  dream,  to  the  wild  improvisations  of 
his  speaking  guitar.  And  thus,  as  a  closer  and  still 
closer  intimacy  admitted  me  more  unreservedly  into  the 
recesses  of  his  spirit,  the  more  bitterly  did  I  perceive  the 
futility  of  all  attempt  at  cheering  a  mind  from  which 
darkness,  as  if  an  inherent,  positive  quality,  poured  forth 
upon  all  objects  of  the  moral  and  physical  universe,  in 
one  unceasing  radiation  of  gloom. 

I  shall  ever  bear  about  me  a  memory  of  the  many 
solemn  hours  I  thus  spent  alone  with  the  master  of  the 
House  of  Usher.  Yet  I  should  fail  in  any  attempt  to 
convey  an  idea  of  the  exact  character  of  the  studies,  or 
of  the  occupations,  in  which  he  involved  me,  or  led  me 
the  way.  An  excited  and  highly  distempered  ideality 
threw  a  sulphureous  lustre  over  all.  His  long,  impro- 
vised dirges  will  ring  forever  in  my  ears.  Among  other 
things,  I  hold  painfully  in  mind  a  certain  singular  per- 
version and  amplification  of  the  wild  air  of  the  last  waltz 
of  Von  Weber.  From  the  paintings  over  which  his 
elaborate  fancy  brooded,  and  which  grew,  touch  by 
touch,  into  vaguenesses  at  which  I  shuddered  the  more 
thrillingly,  because  I  shuddered  knowing  not  why,  — 
from  these  paintings  (vivid  as  their  images  now  are  be- 
fore me)  I  would  in  vain  endeavor  to  educe  more  than 
a  small  portion  which  should  lie  within  the  compass  of 


102  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

merely  written  words.  By  the  utter  simplicity,  by  the 
nakedness  of  his  designs,  he  arrested  and  overawed 
attention.  If  ever  mortal  painted  an  idea,  that  mortal 
was  Roderick  Usher.  For  me  at  least  —  in  the  circum- 
stances then  surrounding  me  —  arose,  out  of  the  pure 
abstractions  which  the  hypochondriac  contrived  to  throw 
upon  his  canvas,  an  intensity  of  intolerable  awe,  no 
shadow  of  which  felt  I  ever  yet  in  the  contemplation  of 
the  certainly  glowing  yet  too  concrete  reveries  of  Fuseli. 

One  of  the  phantasmagoric  conceptions  of  my  friend, 
partaking  not  so  rigidly  of  the  spirit  of  abstraction,  may 
be  shadowed  forth,  although  feebly,  in  words.  A  small 
picture  presented  the  interior  of  an  immensely  long  and 
rectangular  vault  or  tunnel,  with  low  walls,  smooth, 
white,  and  without  interruption  or  device.  Certain 
accessory  points  of  the  design  served  well  to  convey  the 
idea  that  this  excavation  lay  at  an  exceeding  depth  be- 
low the  surface  of  the  earth.  No  outlet  was  observed  in 
any  portion  of  its  vast  extent,  and  no  torch,  or  other 
artificial  source  of  b'ght  was  discernible  ;  yet  a  flood  of 
intense  rays  rolled  throughout,  and  bathed  the  whole  in 
a  ghastly  and  inappropriate  splendor. 

I  have  just  spoken  of  that  morbid  condition  of  the 
auditory  nerve  which  rendered  all  music  intolerable  to 
the  sufferer,  with  the  exception  of  certain  effects  of 
stringed  instruments.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  narrow  lim- 
its to  which  he  thus  confined  himself  upon  the  guitar, 
which  gave  birth,  in  great  measure,  to  the  fantastic 
character  of  his  performances.  But  the  fervid  facility 
of  his  impromptus  could  not  be  so  accounted  for.  They 
must  have  been,  and  were,  in  the  notes,  as  well  as  in 


THE    FALL   OF   THE    HOUSE    OF   USHER.      103 

the  words  of  his  wild  fantasias  (for  he  not  unfrequently 
accompanied  himself  with  rhymed  verbal  improvisations), 
the  result  of  that  intense  mental  collectedness  and  con- 
centration to  which  I  have  previously  alluded  as  observa- 
ble only  in  particular  moments  of  the  highest  artificial  ex- 
citement. The  words  of  one  of  these  rhapsodies  I  have 
easily  remembered.  I  was,  perhaps,  the  more  forcibly 
impressed  with  it  as  he  gave  it,  because,  in  the  under  or 
mystic  current  of  its  meaning,  I  fancied  that  I  perceived, 
and  for  the  first  time,  a  full  consciousness,  on  the  part 
of  Usher,  of  the  tottering  of  his  lofty  reason  upon  her 
throne.  The  verses,  which  were  entitled  "  The  Haunted 
Palace,"  ran  very  nearly,  if  not  accurately,  thus  :  — 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys, 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace  — 

Radiant  palace  —  reared  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion,  — 

It  stood  there ! 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow 
(This  —  all  this  —  was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago) ; 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 


104  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

Spirits  moving  musically 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law, 
Bound  about  a  throne,  where  sitting 

(Porphyrogene !) 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

"Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate ; 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him,  desolate  1) 
And,  round  about  his  home,  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 

And  travellers  now  within  that  valley, 

Through  the  red-litten  windows,  see 
Vast  forms  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody ; 
While,  like  a  rapid,  ghastly  river, 

Through  the  pale  door, 
A.  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever, 

And  laugh,  — but  smile  no  more. 


THE    FALL   OP   THE    HOUSE    OT    USHEE.      105 

I  well  remember  that  suggestions  arising  from  this 
ballad  led  us  into  a  train  of  thought  wherein  became 
manifest  an  opinion  of  Usher's  which  I  mention  not  so 
much  on  account  of  its  novelty  (for  other  men  have 
thought  thus)  as  on  account  of  the  pertinacity  with 
which  he  maintained  it.  This  opinion,  in  its  general 
form,  was  that  of  the  sentience  of  all  vegetable  things. 
But,  in  his  disordered  fancy,  the  idea  had  assumed  a 
more  daring  character,  and  trespassed,  under  certain 
conditions,  upon  the  kingdom  of  inorganization.  I  lack 
words  to  express  the  full  extent  or  the  earnest  abandon. 
of  his  persuasion.  The  belief,  however,  was  connected 
(as  I  have  previously  hinted)  with  the  gray  stones  of 
the  home  of  his  forefathers.  The  conditions  of  the 
sentience  had  been  here,  he  imagined,  fulfilled  in  the 
method  of  collocation  of  these  stones,  —  in  the  order  of 
their  arrangement,  as  well  as  in  that  of  the  m&nj  fungi 
which  overspread  them,  and  of  the  decayed  trees  which 
stood  around,  —  above  all,  in  the  long  undisturbed  en- 
durance of  this  arrangement,  and  in  its  reduplication  in 
the  still  waters  of  the  tarn.  Its  evidence  —  the  evidence 
of  the  sentience  —  was  to  be  seen,  he  said  (and  I  here 
started  as  he  spoke)  in  the  gradual  yet  certain  conden- 
sation of  an  atmosphere  of  their  own  about  the  waters 
and  the  walls.  The  result  was  discoverable,  he  added, 
in  that  silent,  yet  importunate  and  terrible  influence 
which  for  centuries  had  moulded  the  destinies  of  his 
family,  and  which  made  him  what  I  now  saw  him, — 
what  he  was.  Such  opinions  need  no  comment,  and  I 
will  make  none. 

Our  books  —  the  books  which,  for  years,  had  formed 
5* 


106  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

no  small  portion  of  the  mental  existence  of  the  invalid  — 
were,  as  might  be  supposed,  in  strict  keeping  with  this 
character  of  phantasm.  We  pored  together  over  such 
works  as  the  Ververt  et  Chartreuse  of  Gresset ;  the 
Belphegor  of  Machiavelli ;  the  Heaven  and  Hell  of 
Swedenborg;  the  Subterranean  Voyage  of  Nicholas 
Klimm  by  Holberg;  the  Chiromancy  of  Robert  Flud, 
of  Jean  d'Indagin6,  and  of  De  la  Chambre ;  the  Jour- 
ney into  the  Blue  Distance  of  Tieck ;  and  the  City  of 
the  Sun  of  Campanella.  One  favorite  volume  was  a 
small  octavo  edition  of  the  Directorium  Inquisitor ium, 
by  the  Dominican  Eymeric  de  Gironne  ;  and  there  were 
passages  in  Pomponius  Mela,  about  the  old  African 
Satyrs  and  (Egipans,  over  which  Usher  would  sit  dream- 
ing for  hours.  His  chief  delight,  however,  was  found 
in  the  perusal  of  an  exceedingly  rare  and  curious  book 
in  quarto  Gothic,  —  the  manual  of  a  forgotten  church, 
—  the  Vigilia  Mortuorum  secundum  Chorum  Ecclesia 
Maguntiiue. 

I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  wild  ritual  of  this 
work,  and  of  its  probable  influence  upon  the  hypochon- 
driac, when,  one  evening,  having  informed  me  abruptly 
that  the  lady  Madeline  was  no  more,  he  stated  his  inten- 
tion of  preserving  her  corpse  for  a  fortnight  (previously 
to  its  final  interment)  in  one  of  the  numerous  vaults 
within  the  main  walls  of  the  building.  The  worldly 
reason,  however,  assigned  for  this  singular  proceeding, 
was  one  which  I  did  not  feel  at  liberty  to  dispute.  The 
brother  had  been  led  to  his  resolution  (so  he  told  me)  by 
consideration  of  the  unusual  character  of  the  malady  of 
the  deceased,  of  certain  obtrusive  and  eager  inquiries  on 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.   107 

the  part  of  her  medical  men,  and  of  the  remote  and 
exposed  situation  of  the  burial-ground  of  the  family. 
I  will  not  deny  that  when  I  called  to  mind  the  sinister 
countenance  of  the  person  whom  I  met  upon  the  stair- 
case, on  the  day  of  my  arrival  at  the  house,  I  had  no 
desire  to  oppose  what  I  regarded  as  at  best  but  a  harmless, 
and  by  no  means  an  unnatural  precaution. 

At  the  request  of  Usher,  I  personally  aided  him  in  the 
arrangements  for  the  temporary  entombment.  The  body 
having  been  encoffined,  we  two  alone  bore  it  to  its  rest. 
The  vault  in  which  we  placed  it  (and  which  had  been  so 
long  unopened  that  our  torches,  half  smothered  in  its 
oppressive  atmosphere,  gave  us  little  opportunity  for 
investigation)  was  small,  damp,  and  entirely  without 
means  of  admission  for  light;  lying,  at  great  depth, 
immediately  beneath  that  portion  of  the  building  in 
which  was  my  own  sleeping-apartment.  It  had  been 
used,  apparently,  in  remote  feudal  times,  for  the  worst 
purposes  of  a  donjon-keep,  and,  in  later  days,  as  a  place 
of  deposit  for  powder,  or  some  other  highly  combustible 
substance,  as  a  portion  of  its  floor,  and  the  whole  inte- 
rior of  a  long  archway  through  which  we  reached  it,  were 
carefully  sheathed  with  copper.  The  door  of  massive 
iron  had  been,  also,  similarly  protected.  Its  immense 
weight  caused  an  unusually  sharp,  grating  sound,  as  it 
moved  upon  its  hinges. 

Having  deposited  our  mournful  burden  upon  tressels 
within  this  region  of  horror,  we  partially  turned  aside 
the  yet  unscrewed  lid  of  the  coffin,  and  looked  upon  the 
Cace  of  the  tenant.  A  striking  similitude  between  the 
brother  and  sister  now  first  arrested  my  attention ;  and 


108  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Usher,  divining,  perhaps,  my  thoughts,  murmured  out 
some  few  words  from  which  I  learned  that  the  deceased 
and  himself  had  been  twins,  and  that  sympathies  of  a 
scarcely  intelligible  nature  had  always  existed  between 
them.  Our  glances,  however,  rested  not  long  upon  the 
dead,  —  for  we  could  not  regard  her  unawed.  The  dis- 
ease which  had  thus  entombed  the  lady  in  the  maturity 
of  youth,  had  left,  as  usual  in  all  maladies  of  a  strictly 
cataleptical  character,  the  mockery  of  a  faint  blush  upon 
the  bosom  and  the  face,  and  that  suspiciously  lingering 
smile  upon  the  lip  which  is  so  terrible  in  death.  We 
replaced  and  screwed  down  the  lid,  and,  having  secured 
the  door  of  iron,  made  our  way,  with  toil,  into  the 
scarcely  less  gloomy  apartments  of  the  upper  portion  of 
the  house. 

And  now,  some  days  of  bitter  grief  having  elapsed,  an 
observable  change  came  over  the  features  of  the  mental 
disorder  of  my  friend.  His  ordinary  manner  had  van- 
ished. His  ordinary  occupations  were  neglected  or  for- 
gotten.  He  roamed  from  chamber  to  chamber  with 
hurried,  unequal,  and  objectless  step.  The  pallor  of 
his  countenance  had  assumed,  if  possible,  a  more  ghastly 
hue,  — but  the  luminousness  of  his  eye  had  utterly  gone 
out.  The  once  occasional  huskiness  of  his  tone  was 
heard  no  more ;  and  a  tremulous  quaver,  as  if  of  extreme 
terror,  habitually  characterized  his  utterance.  There  were 
times,  indeed,  when  I  thought  his  unceasingly  agitated 
mind  was  laboring  with  some  oppressive  secret,  to  di- 
vulge which  he  struggled  for  the  necessary  courage.  At 
times,  again,  I  was  obliged  to  resolve  all  into  the  mere 
inexplicable  vagaries  of  madness,  for  I  beheld  him  gazing 


THE    FALL   OP   THE    HOUSE   OF   USHER.     109 

upon  vacancy  for  long  hours,  in  an  attitude  of  the  pro- 
foundest  attention,  as  if  listening  to  some  imaginary 
sound.  It  was  no  wonder  that  his  condition  terrified, 
that  it  infected  me.  I  felt  creeping  upon  me,  by  slow 
yet  certain  degrees,  the  wild  influences  of  his  own  fan- 
tastic yet  impressive  superstitions. 

It  was,  especially,  upon  retiring  to  bed  late  in  the 
night  of  the  seventh  or  eighth  day  after  the  placing  of 
the  lady  Madeline  within  the  donjon,  that  I  experienced 
the  full  power  of  such  feelings.  Sleep  came  not  near  my 
couch, — while  the  hours  waned  and  waned  away.  I 
struggled  to  reason  off  the  nervousness  which  had  do- 
minion over  me.  I  endeavored  to  believe  that  much,  if 
not  all,  of  what  I  felt  was  due  to  the  bewildering  influ- 
ence of  the  gloomy  furniture  of  the  room,  —  of  the  dark 
and  tattered  draperies,  which,  tortured  into  motion  by 
the  breath  of  a  rising  tempest,  swayed  fitfully  to  and  fro 
upon  the  walls,  and  rustled  uneasily  about  the  decora- 
tions of  the  bed.  But  my  efforts  were  fruitless.  An 
irrepressible  tremor  gradually  pervaded  my  frame ;  and, 
at  length,  upon  my  very  heart  sat  an  incubus  of  utterly 
causeless  alarm.  Shaking  this  off  with  a  gasp  and  a 
struggle,  I  uplifted  myself  on  the  pillows,  and,  peering 
earnestly  within  the  intense  darkness  of  the  chamber, 
hearkened  —  I  know  not  why,  except  that  an  instinctive 
spirit  prompted  me  —  to  certain  low  and  indefinite  sounds 
which  came,  through  the  pauses  of  the  storm,  at  long  in- 
tervals, I  knew  not  whence.  Overpowered  by  an  intense 
sentiment  of  horror,  unaccountable  yet  unendurable,  I 
threw  on  my  clothes  with  haste  (for  I  felt  that  I  should 
sleep  no  more  during  the  night),  and  endeavored  to 


110  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

arouse  myself  from  the  pitiable  condition  into  which  I 
had  fallen,  by  pacing  rapidly  to  and  fro  through  the 
apartment. 

I  had  taken  but  few  turns  in  this  manner,  when  a 
light  step  on  an  adjoining  staircase  arrested  my  atten- 
tion. I  presently  recognized  it  as  that  of  Usher.  In  an 
instant  afterward  he  rapped,  with  a  gentle  touch,  at  my 
door,  and  entered,  bearing  a  lamp.  His  countenance  was, 
as  usual,  cadaverously  wan;  but,  moreover,  there  was 
a  species  of  mad  hilarity  in  his  eyes,  —  an  evidently  re- 
strained hysteria  in  his  whole  demeanor.  His  air  ap- 
palled me ;  but  anything  was  preferable  to  the  solitude 
which  I  had  so  long  endured,  and  I  even  welcomed  his 
presence  as  a  relief. 

"  And  you  have  not  seen  it  P  "  he  said  abruptly,  after 
having  stared  about  him  for  some  moments  in  silence,  — 
"you  have  not  then  seen  it?  —  but,  stay!  you  shall." 
Thus  speaking,  and  having  carefully  shaded  his  kmp,  he 
hurried  to  one  of  the  casements,  and  threw  it  freely  open 
to  the  storm. 

The  impetuous  fury  of  the  entering  gust  nearly  lifted 
us  from  our  feet.  It  was,  indeed,  a  tempestuous  yet 
sternly  beautiful  night,  and  one  wildly  singular  in  its 
terror  and  its  beauty.  A  whirlwind  had  apparently  col- 
lected its  force  in  our  vicinity ;  for  there  were  frequent 
and  violent  alterations  in  the  direction  of  the  wind  ;  and 
the  exceeding  density  of  the  clouds  (which  hung  so  low 
as  to  press  upon  the  turrets  of  the  house)  did  not  pre- 
vent our  perceiving  the  life-like  velocity  with  which  they 
flew  careering  from  all  points  against  each  other,  with- 
out passing  away  into  the  distance.  I  say  that  even 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.   Ill 

their  exceeding  density  did  not  prevent  our  perceiving 
this ;  yet  we  had  no  glimpse  of  the  moon  or  stars,  nor 
was  there  any  flashing  forth  of  the  lightnifcg.  But  the 
under  surfaces  of  the  huge  masses  of  agitated  vapor,  as 
well  as  all  terrestrial  objects  immediately  around  us, 
were  glowing  in  the  unnatural  light  of  a  faintly  luminous 
and  distinctly  visible  gaseous  exhalation  which  hung 
about  and  enshrouded  the  mansion. 

"  You  must  not,  you  shall  not  behold  this !  "  said  I, 
shudderingly,  to  Usher,  as  I  led  him,  with  a  gentle  vio- 
lence, from  the  window  to  a  seat.  "  These  appearances, 
which  bewilder  you,  are  merely  electrical  phenomena  not 
uncommon;  or  it  may  be  that  they  have  their  ghastly 
origin  in  the  rank  miasma  of  the  tarn.  Let  us  close  this 
casement;  the  air  is  chilling  and  dangerous  to  your 
frame.  Here  is  one  of  your  favorite  romances.  I  will 
read,  and  you  shall  listen ;  and  so  we  will  pass  away  this 
terrible  night  together." 

The  antique  volume  which  I  had  taken  up  was  the 
Mad  Trist  of  Sir  Launcelot  Canning ;  but  I  had  called 
it  a  favorite  of  Usher's  more  in  sad  jest  than  in  earnest ; 
for,  in  truth,  there  is  little  in  its  uncouth  and  unimagina- 
tive prolixity  which  could  have  had  interest  for  the  lofty 
and  spiritual  ideality  of  my  friend.  It  was,  however,  the 
only  book  immediately  at  hand ;  and  I  indulged  a  vague 
hope  that  the  excitement  which  now  agitated  the  hypo- 
chondriac might  find  relief  (for  the  history  of  mental 
disorder  is  full  of  similar  anomalies)  even  in  the  extreme- 
ness of  the  folly  which  I  should  read.  Could  I  have 
judged,  indeed,  by  the  wild,  overstrained  air  of  vivacity 
wi*.h  which  he  hearkened,  or  apparently  hearkened,  to  the 


112  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

words  of  the  tale,  I  might  well  have  congratulated  my- 
self upou  the  success  of  my  design. 

I  had  arrived  at  that  well-known  portion  of  the  story 
where  Ethelred,  the  hero  of  the  Trist,  having  sought  in 
vain  for  peaceable  admission  into  the  dwelling  of  the  her- 
mit, proceeds  to  make  good  an  entrance  by  force.  Here, 
it  will  be  remembered,  the  words  of  the  narrative  run 
thus : — 

"And  Ethelred,  who  was  by  nature  of  a  doughty 
heart,  and  who  was  now  mighty  withal,  on  account  of 
the  powerfulness  of  the  wine  which  he  had  drunken, 
waited  no  longer  to  hold  parley  with  the  hermit,  who, 
in  sooth,  was  of  an  obstinate  and  maliceful  torn,  but, 
feeling  the  rain  upon  his  shoulders,  and  fearing  the  rising 
of  the  tempest,  uplifted  his  mace  outright,  and,  with 
blows,  made  quickly  room  in  the  plankings  of  the  door 
for  his  gauntleted  hand;  and  now  pulling  therewith 
sturdily,  he  so  cracked,  and  ripped,  and  tore  all  asun- 
der, that  the  noise  of  the  dry  and  hollow-sounding  wood 
alarumed  and  reverberated  throughout  the  forest." 

At  the  termination  of  this  sentence  I  started,  and  for 
a  moment  paused ;  for  it  appeared  to  me  (although  I  at 
once  concluded  that  my  excited  fancy  had  deceived  me), 
—  it  appeared  to  me  that,  from  some  very  remote  por- 
tion of  the  mansion,  came  indistinctly  to  my  ears  what 
might  have  been,  in  its  exact  similarity  of  character,  the 
echo  (but  a  stifled  and  dull  one  certainly)  of  the  very 
cracking  and  ripping  sound  which  Sir  Launcelot  had  so 
particularly  described.  It  was,  beyond  duubt,  the  coin- 
cidence alone  which  had  arrested  my  attention ;  for,  amid 
the  rattling  of  the  sashes  of  the  casements,  and  the  ordi- 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.   113 

nary  commingled  noises  of  the  still  increasing  storm,  the 
sound,  in  itself,  had  nothing,  surely,  which  should  have 
interested  or  disturbed  me.  I  continued  the  story. 

"But  the  good  champion  Ethelred,  now  entering 
within  the  door,  was  sore  enraged  and  amazed  to  per- 
ceive no  signal  of  the  maliceful  hermit ;  but,  in  the  stead 
thereof,  a  dragon  of  a  scaly  and  prodigious  demeanor, 
and  of  a  fiery  tongue,  which  sate  in  guard  before  a  pal- 
ace of  gold,  with  a  floor  of  silver;  and  upon  the  wall 
there  hung  a  shield  of  shining  brass  with  this  legend 
enwritten :  — 

'  Who  entereth  herein,  a  conqueror  hath  bin ; 
Who  slayeth  the  dragon,  the  shield  he  shall  win. ' 

And  Ethelred  uplifted  his  mace,  and  struck  upon  the 
head  of  the  dragon,  which  fell  before  him,  and  gave  up 
his  pesty  breath,  with  a  shriek  so  horrid  and  harsh,  and 
withal  so  piercing,  that  Ethelred  had  fain  to  close  his  ears 
with  his  hands  against  the  dreadful  noise  of  it,  the  like 
whereof  was  never  before  heard." 

Here  again  I  paused  abruptly,  and  now  with  a  feeling 
of  wild  amazement ;  for  there  could  be  no  doubt  what- 
ever that,  in  this  instance,  I  did  actually  hear  (although 
from  what  direction  it  proceeded  I  found  it  impossible  to 
say)  a  low  and  apparently  distant,  but  harsh,  protracted, 
and  most  unusual  screaming  or  grating  sound,  — the  ex- 
act counterpart  of  what  my  fancy  had  already  conjured 
up  for  the  dragon's  unnatural  shriek  as  described  by  the 
romancer. 

Oppressed,  as  I  certainly  was,  upon  the  occurrence  of 
this  second  and  most  extraordinary  coincidence,  by  a 


114  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

thousand  conflicting  sensations,  in  wliich  wonder  and  ex- 
treme terror  were  predominant,  I  still  retained  sufficient 
presence  of  mind  to  avoid  exciting,  by  any  observation, 
the  sensitive  nervousness  of  my  companion.  I  was  by 
no  means  certain  that  he  had  noticed  the  sounds  in  ques- 
tion ;  although,  assuredly,  a  strange  alteration  had,  dur- 
ing the  last  few  minutes,  taken  place  in  his  demeanor. 
From  a  position  fronting  my  own,  he  had  gradually 
brought  round  his  chair,  so  as  to  sit  with  his  face  to  the 
door  of  the  chamber ;  and  thus  I  could  but  partially  per- 
ceive his  features,  although  I  saw  that  his  lips  trembled 
as  if  he  were  murmuring  inaudibly.  His  head  had 
dropped  upon  his  breast;  yet  I  knew  that  he  was  not 
asleep,  from  the  wide  and  rigid  opening  of  the  eye  as  I 
caught  a  glance  of  it  in  profile.  The  motion  of  his  body, 
too,  was  at  variance  with  this  idea ;  for  he  rocked  from 
side  to  side  with  a  gentle  yet  constant  and  uniform  sway. 
Having  rapidly  taken  notice  of  all  this,  I  resumed  the 
narrative  of  Sir  Launcelot,  which  thus  proceeded :  — 

"And  now  the  champion,  having  escaped  from  the 
terrible  fury  of  the  dragon,  bethinking  himself  of  the 
brazen  shield,  and  of  the  breaking  up  of  the  enchantment 
which  was  upon  it,  removed  the  carcass  from  out  of  the 
way  before  him,  and  approached  valorously  over  the  sil- 
ver pavement  of  the  castle  to  where  the  shield  was  upon 
the  wall ;  which  in  sooth  tarried  not  for  his  full  coming, 
but  fell  down  at  his  feet  upon  the  silver  floor,  with  a 
mighty  great  and  terrible  ringing  sound." 

No  sooner  had  these  syllables  passed  my  lips,  than  — 
as  if  a  shield  of  brass  had  indeed,  at  the  moment,  fallen 
heavily  upon  a  floor  of  silver  —  I  became  aware  of  a 


THE    FALL   OF   THE    HOUSE    OF   USHER.      115 

distinct,  hollow,  metallic,  and  clangorous,  yet  apparently 
muffled  reverberation.  Completely  unnerved,  I  leaped 
to  my  feet;  but  the  measured  rocking  movement  of 
Usher  was  undisturbed.  I  rushed  to  the  chair  in  which 
he  sat.  His  eyes  were  bent  fixedly  before  him,  and 
throughout  his  whole  countenance  reigned  a  stony  ri- 
gidity. But,  as  I  placed  my  hand  upon  his  shoulder, 
there  came  a  strong  shudder  over  his  whole  person; 
a  sickly  smile  quivered  about  his  lips;  and  I  saw  that 
he  spoke  in  a  low,  hurried,  and  gibbering  murmur,  as 
if  unconscious  of  my  presence.  Bending  closely  over 
him,  I  at  length  drank  in  the  hideous  import  of  his 
words. 

"Not  hear  it?  —  yes,  I  hear  it,  and  have  heard  it. 
Long  —  long  —  long  —  many  minutes,  many  hours,  many 
days,  have  I  heard  it  —  yet  I  dared  not  —  0,  pity  me, 
miserable  wretch  that  I  am  !  —  I  dared  not  —  I  dared 
not  speak !  We  have  put  her  living  in  the  tomb  !  Said 
I  not  that  my  senses  were  acute  ?  I  now  tell  you  that  I 
heard  her  first  feeble  movements  in  the  hollow  coffin. 
I  heard  them  —  many,  many  days  ago  —  yet  I  dared  not 

—  I  dared  not  speak  !    And  now  —  to-night  —  Ethelred 

—  ha!   ha!  — the  breaking  of  the  hermit's  door,  and 
the  death-cry  of  the  dragon,  and  the  clangor  of  the 
shield !  —  say,  rather,  the  rending  of  her  coffin,  and  the 
grating  of  the  iron  hinges  of  her  prison,  and  her  strug- 
gles within  the  coppered  archway  of  the  vault !    0,  whith- 
er shall  I  fly  ?     Will  she  not  be  here  anon  ?    Is  she  not 

m 

hurrying  to  upbraid  me  for  my  haste  ?  Have  I  not  heard 
her  footstep  on  the  stair?  Do  I  not  distinguish  that 
heavy  and  horrible  beating  of  her  heart  ?  Madman !  "  — 


116  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

here  he  sprang  furiously  to  his  feet,  and  shrieked  out  his 
syllables,  as  if  in  the  effort  he  were  giving  up  his  soul,  — 
"  Madman !  I  tell  you  that  she  now  stands  without  the 
door!" 

As  if  in  the  superhuman  energy  of  his  utterance  had 
been  found  the  potency  of  a  spell,  the  huge  antique 
panels  to  which  the  speaker  pointed  threw  slowly  back, 
upon  the  instant,  their  ponderous  and  ebony  jaws.  It 
was  the  work  of  the  rushing  gust;  but  then  without 
those  doors  did  stand  the  lofty  and  enshrouded  figure  of 
the  lady  Madeline  of  Usher.  There  was  blood  upon  her 
white  robes,  and  the  evidence  of  some  bitter  struggle 
upon  every  portion  of  her  emaciated  frame.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  remained  trembling  and  reeling  to  and  fro  upon 
the  threshold,  then,  with  a  low  moaning  cry,  fell  heavily 
inward  upon  the  person  of  her  brother,  and  in  her  vio- 
lent and  now  final  death-agonies  bore  him  to  the  floor  a 
corpse,  and  a  victim  to  the  terrors  he  had  anticipated. 

From  that  chamber,  and  from  that  mansion,  I  fled 
aghast.  The  storm  was  still  abroad  in  all  its  wrath  as 
I  found  myself  crossing  the  old  causeway.  Suddenly 
there  shot  along  the  path  a  wild  light,  and  I  turned  to 
see  whence  a  gleam  so  unusual  could  have  issued ;  for 
the  vast  house  and  its  shadows  were  alone  behind  me. 
The  radiance  was  that  of  the  full,  setting,  and  blood-red 
moon,  which  now  shone  vividly  through  that  once  barely 
discernible  fissure,  of  which  I  have  before  spoken  as  ex- 
tending from  the  roof  of  the  building,  in  a  zigzag  direc- 
tion, to  the  base.  While  I  gazed,  this  fissure  rapidly 
widened,  —  there  came  a  fierce  breath  of  the  whirlwind, 
—  the  entire  orb  of  the  satellite  burst  at  once  upon  my 


THE   FALL  OF  THE   HOUSE   OF   USHEB.     117 

sight,  —  my  brain  reeled  as  I  saw  the  mighty  walls  rush- 
ing asunder,  —  there  was  a  long,  tumultuous,  shouting 
sound  like  the  voice  of  a  thousand  waters,  —  and  the  deep 
and  dank  tarn  at  my  feet  closed  sullenly  and  silently  over 
the  fragments  of  the  House  of  Usher. 


CHOPS   THE   DWARF. 

BY  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

j|T  one  period  of  its  reverses,  the  House  to  Let 
fell  into  the  hands  of  a  showman.  He  was 
found  registered  as  its  occupier,  on  the  parish 
books  of  the  time  when  he  rented  the  House,  and  there 
was  therefore  no  need  of  any  clew  to  his  name.  But  he 
himself  was  less  easy  to  be  found ;  for  he  had  led  a  wan- 
dering life,  and  settled  people  had  lost  sight  of  him,  and 
people  who  plumed  themselves  on  being  respectable 
were  shy  of  admitting  that  they  had  ever  known  any- 
thing of  him.  At  last  among  the  marsh  lands  near  the 
river's  level,  that  lie  about  Deptford  and  the  neighboring 
market-gardens,  a  grizzled  personage  in  velveteen,  with  a 
face  so  cut  up  by  varieties  of  weather  that  he  looked  as 
if  he  had  been  tattooed,  was  found  smoking  a  pipe  at 
the  door  of  a  wooden  house  on  wheels.  The  wooden 
house  was  laid  up  in  ordinary  for  the  winter  near  the 
mouth  of  a  muddy  creek ;  and  everything  near  it  —  the 
foggy  river,  the  misty  marshes,  and  the  steaming  market- 
gardens  —  smoked  in  company  with  the  grizzled  man. 
In  the  midst  of  the  smoking  party,  the  funnel-chimney 


CHOPS    THE    DWARF.  119 

of  the  wooden  house  on  wheels  was  not  remiss,  but  took 
its  pipe  with  the  rest  in  a  companionable  manner. 

On  being  asked  if  it  were  he  who  had  once  rented  the 
House  to  Let,  Grizzled  Velveteen  looked  surprised,  and 
said  yes.  Then  his  name  was  Magsman.  That  was  it, 
Toby  Magsman,  —  which  was  lawfully  christened  Rob- 
ert ;  but  called  in  the  line,  from  an  infant,  Toby.  There 
was  nothing  agin  Toby  Magsman,  he  believed  ?  If  there 
was  suspicion  of  such,  mention  it ! 

There  was  no  suspicion  of  such,  he  might  rest  assured. 
But  some  inquiries  were  making  about  that  house,  and 
would  he  object  to  say  why  he  left  it  ? 

Not  at  all ;  why  should  he  ?  He  left  it  along  of  a 
dwarf. 

Along  of  a  dwarf  ? 

Mr.  Magsman  repeated,  deliberately  and  emphatically, 
"Along  of  a  dwarf." 

Might  it  be  compatible  with  Mr.  Magsman's  inclina- 
tion and  convenience  to  enter,  as  a  favor,  into  a  few  par- 
ticulars ? 

Mr.  Magsman  entered  into  the  following  particulars :  — 

It  was  a  long  time  ago  to  begin  with,  —  afore  lotteries 
and  a  deal  more  was  done  away  with.  Mr.  Magsman 
was  looking  around  for  a  good  pitch,  and  he  see  that 
house,  and  he  says  to  himself,  "  I  '11  have  you  if  you  are 
to  be  had.  If  money  '11  get  you,  I  '11  have  you." 

The  neighbors  cut  up  rough,  and  made  complaints; 
but  Mr.  Magsman  don't  know  what  they  all  would  have 
had.  It  was  a  lovely  thing.  First  of  all,  there  was  the 
canvas  representin  the  pictur  of  the  Giant  in  Spanish 
trunks  and  a  ruff,  who  was  half  the  height  of  the  house, 


120  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

and  was  run  up  with  a  line  and  pulley  to  a  pole  of  the 
roof,  so  that  his  Ed  was  coeval  with  the  parapet.  Then 
there  was  the  canvas  representin  the  pictur  of  the  Albina 
lady,  showin  her  white  'air  to  the  Army  and  Navy  in 
correct  uniform.  Then  there  was  the  canvas  representin 
the  pictur  of  the  Wild  Indian  scalpin  a  member  of  some 
foreign  nation.  Then  there  was  the  canvas  representin 
the  pictur  of  a  child  of  a  British  planter  seized  by  two 
Boa-Constrictors,  —  not  that  we  never  had  no  child,  nor 
no  Constrictors  neither.  Similarly,  there  was  the  can- 
vas representin  the  pictur  of  the  Wild  Ass  of  the  Prai- 
ries, —  not  that  we  never  had  no  wild  asses,  nor  would  n't 
have  had  'em  as  a  gift.  Last  there  was  the  canvas 
representin  the  pictur  of  the  Dwarf,  and  like  him  too 
(considerin),  with  George  the  Fourth  in  such  a  state  of 
astonishment  at  him  as  his  Majesty  could  n't  with  his 
utmost  politeness  and  stoutness  express.  The  front  of 
the  House  was  so  covered  with  canvases  that  there 
was  n't  a  spark  of  daylight  ever  visible  on  that  side. 
"MAGSMAN'S  AMUSEMENTS,"  fifteen  foot  long  by  two 
foot  high,  ran  over  the  front  door  and  parlor  winders. 
The  passage  was  a  arbor  of  green  baize  and  garden 
stuff.  A  barrel-organ  performed  there  unceasing.  And 
as  to  respectability,  —  if  threepence  ain't  respectable, 
what  is  P 

But  the  Dwarf  is  the  principal  article  at  present,  and 
he  was  worth  money.  He  was  wrote  up  as  "Major 
Tpschoffki,  of  the  Imperial  Bulgraderian  Brigade." 
Nobody  could  n't  pronounce  the  name,  and  it  never  was 
intended  anybody  should.  The  public  always  turned  it, 
as  a  regular  rule,  into  Chopski.  In  the  line  he  was 


CHOPS    THE    DWARF.  121 

called  Chops  ;  partly  on  that  account,  and  partly  because 
his  real  name,  if  he  ever  had  any  real  name  (which  was 
very  dubious),  was  Stakes. 

He  was  an  uncommon  small  man,  he  really  was. 
Certainly  not  so  small  as  he  was  made  out  to  be,  but 
where  's  your  dwarf  as  is  ?  He  was  a  most  uncommon 
small  man,  with  a  most  uncommon  large  Ed ;  and  what 
he  had  inside  that  Ed  nobody  never  knowed  but  him- 
self; even  supposin  himself  to  have  ever  took  stock  of  it, 
which  it  would  have  been  a  stiff  job  for  him  to  do.  The 
kindest  little  man  as  never  growed !  —  spirited,  but  not 
proud.  When  he  travelled  with  the  Spotted  Baby, 
though  he  knowed  himself  to  be  a  nat'ral  Dwarf,  and 
knowed  the  Baby's  spots  to  be  put  onto  him  artificial, 
he  nursed  that  Baby  like  a  mother.  You  never  heard 
him  give  a  ill  name  to  a  giant.  He  did  allow  himself  to 
break  out  into  strong  language  respectin  the  Fat  Lady 
from  Norfolk ;  but  that  was  an  affair  of  the  'art ;  and 
when  a  man's  'art  has  been  trifled  with  by  a  lady,  and 
the  preference  giv  to  a  Indian,  he  ain't  master  of  his  ac- 
tions. 

He  was  always  in  love,  of  course ;  every  human  nat'ral 
phenomenon  is.  And  he  was  always  in  love  with  a  krge 
woman ;  I  never  knowed  the  dwarf  as  could  be  got  to 
love  a  small  one.  Which  helps  to  keep  'em  the  curiosi- 
ties they  are. 

One  sing'lar  idea  he  had  in  that  Ed  of  his,  which  must 
have  meant  something,  or  it  would  n't  have  been  there. 
It  was  always  his  opinion  that  he  was  entitled  to  prop- 
erty. He  never  put  his  name  to  anything.  He  had 
been  taught  to  write  by  a  young  man  without  any  arms, 

TOL.  II.  6 


122  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

who  got  his  living  with  his  toes  (quite  a  writing-master 
he  was,  and  taught  scores  in  the  line),  but  Chops  would 
have  starved  to  death  afore  he  'd  gained  a  bit  of  bread 
by  putting  liis  hand  to  a  paper.  This  is  the  more  curious 
to  bear  in  mind,  because  HE  had  no  property,  except  his 
house  and  a  sarser.  When  I  say  his  house,  I  mean  the 
box,  painted  and  got  up  outside  like  a  reg'ler  six-roomer, 
that  he  used  to  creep  into,  with  a  diamond  ring  (or  quite 
as  good  to  look  at)  on  his  forefinger,  and  ring  a  little 
bell  out  of  what  the  public  believed  to  be  the  drawing-room 
winder.  And  when  I  say  a  sarser,  I  mean  a  Cheney 
sarser  in  which  he  made  a  collection  for  himself  at  the 
end  of  every  entertainment.  His  cue  for  that  he  took 
from  me :  "  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  little  man  will 
now  walk  three  times  round  the  Cairawan,  and  retire 
behind  the  curtain."  When  he  said  anything  impor- 
tant, in  private  life,  he  mostly  wound  it  up  with  this 
form  of  words,  and  they  was  generally  the  last  thing  he 
said  to  me  afore  he  went  to  bed. 

He  had  what  I  consider  a  fine  mind,  —  a  poetic  mind. 
His  ideas  respectin  his  property  never  come  upon  him 
so  strong  as  when  he  sat  upon  a  barrel-organ  and  had  the 
handle  turned.  Arter  the  wibration  had  run  through 
him  a  little  time,  he  would  screech  out :  "  Toby,  I  feel 
my  property  coming,  —  grind  away  !  I  'm  counting  my 
guineas  by  thousands,  Toby,  —  grind  away  !  Toby,  I 
shall  be  a  man  of  fortun !  I  feel  the  mint  a  jingling  in 
me,  Toby,  and  I  'm  swelling  out  into  the  Bank  of  Eng- 
land ! "  Such  is  the  influence  of  music  on  the  poetic 
mind.  Not  that  he  was  partial  to  any  other  music  but 
a  barrel-organ ;  on  the  contrairy,  he  hated  it. 


CHOPS    THE    DWARF.  123 

He  had  a  kind  of  everlasting  grudge  agin  the  public ; 
which  is  a  thing  you  may  notice  in  many  phenomenons 
that  get  their  living  out  of  it.  What  riled  him  most  in 
the  nater  of  his  occupation  was  that  it  kep  him  out  of 
society.  He  was  continiwally  sayin  :  "  Toby,  my  ambi- 
tion is  to  go  into  society.  The  curse  of  my  position 
towards  the  public  is  that  it  keeps  me  hout  of  society. 
This  don't  signify  to  a  low  beast  of  a  Indian ;  he  ain't 
formed  for  society.  This  don't  signify  to  a  Spotted 
Baby  ;  he  ain't  formed  for  society,  —  I  am." 

Nobody  never  could  make  out  what  Chops  done  with 
his  money.  He  had  a  good  salary,  down  on  the  drum 
every  Saturday  as  the  day  came  round,  besides  having 
the  run  of  his  teeth,  —  and  he  was  a  woodpecker  to  eat, 
—  but  all  dwarfs  are.  The  sarser  was  a  little  income, 
bringing  him  in  so  many  half-pence  that  he  'd  carry  'em, 
for  a  week  together,  tied  up  in  a  pocket-handkercher. 
And  yet  he  never  had  money.  And  it  could  n't  be  the 
Fat  Lady  from  Norfolk,  as  was  once  supposed ;  because  it 
stands  to  reason  that  when  you  have  a  animosity  towards 
a  Indian  which  makes  you  grind  your  teeth  at  him  to 
his  face,  and  which  can  hardly  hold  you  from  goosing 
him  audible  when  he  's  going  through  his  war-dance,  — 
it  stands  to  reason  you  would  n't  under  them  circum- 
stances deprive  yourself  to  support  that  Indian  in  the 
lap  of  luxury. 

Most  unexpected,  the  mystery  came  out  one  day  at 
Egham  races.  The  public  was  shy  of  bein  pulled  in, 
and  Chops  was  ringin  his  little  bell  out  of  his  drawin-' 
room  winder,  and  was  snarlin  to  me  over  his  shoulder 
as  he  kneeled  down  with  his  legs  out  at  the  back  door,  — 


124  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

for  he  could  n't  be  shoved  into  his  house  without  kneel- 
ing down,  and  the  premises  would  n't  accommodate  his 
legs,  —  was  snarlin :  "  Here  's  a  precious  public  for 
you;  why  the  devil  don't  they  tumble  up?"  when  a 
man  in  the  crowd  holds  up  a  carrier-pigeon  and  cries 
out:  "If  there's  any  person  here  as  has  got  a  ticket, 
the  Lottery 's  just  drawd,  and  the  number  as  has  come 
up  for  the  great  prize  is  three,  seven,  forty-two  !  Three, 
seven,  forty-two  ! "  I  was  givin  the  man  to  the  furies 
myself,  for  calling  of  the  public's  attention,  —  for  the 
public  will  turn  away,  at  any  time,  to  look  at  anything 
in  preference  to  the  thing  showed  'em ;  and  if  you  doubt 
it,  get  'em  together  for  any  individual  purpose  on  the 
face  of  the  earth,  and  send  only  two  people  in  late  and 
see  if  the  whole  company  ain't  far  more  interested  in 
taking  particular  notice  of  them  two  than  you,  —  I  say 
I  was  n't  best  pleased  with  the  man  for  callin  out, 
was  n't  blessin  him  in  my  own  mind,  when  I  see  Chops's 
little  bell  fly  out  of  the  winder  at  a  old  lady,  and  he  gets 
up  and  kicks  his  box  over,  exposin  the  whole  secret, 
and  he  catches  hold  of  the  calves  of  my  legs  and  he  says 
to  me :  "  Carry  me  into  the  wan,  Toby,  and  throw  a 
pail  of  water  over  me,  or  I  'm  a  dead  man,  for  I  'm  come 
into  my  property !  " 

Twelve  thousand  odd  hundred  pounds  was  Chops's 
winnins.  He  had  bought  a  half-ticket  for  the  twenty- 
five  thousand  prize,  and  it  had  come  up.  The  first  use 
he  made  of  his  property  was  to  offer  to  fight  the  Wild 
Indian  for  five  hundred  pound  a  side,  him  with  a  poi- 
soned darnin-needle  and  the  Indian  with  a  club;  but 
the  Indian  being  in  want  of  backers  to  that  amount,  it 
went  no  further. 


CHOPS    THE    DWARF.  125 

Arter  he  had  been  mad  for  a  week  —  in  a  state  of 
mind,  in  short,  in  which,  if  I  had  let  him  sit  on  the 
organ  for  only  two  minutes,  I  believe  he  would  have  bust 
—  but  we  kept  the  organ  from  him — Mr.  Chops  come 
round  and  behaved  liberal  and  beautiful  to  all.  He  then 
sent  for  a  young  man  he  knowed,  as  had  a  wery  genteel 
appearance  and  was  a  Bonnet  at  a  gaming-booth  (most 
respectable  brought  up,  father  havin  been  imminent  in 
the  livery-stable  line,  but  unfort'nate  in  a  commercial 
crisis  through  paintin  a  old  gray,  ginger-bay,  and  sellin 
him  with  a  pedigree),  and  Mr.  Chops  said  this  to  Bonnet, 
who  said  his  name  was  Normandy,  which  it  was  n't :  — 

"Normandy,  I'm  going  into  society.  Will  you  go 
with  me  ?  " 

Says  Normandy :  "  Do  I  understand  you,  Mr.  Chops, 
to  hintimate  that  the  'ole  of  the  expenses  of  that  move 
will  be  borne  by  yourself?  " 

"  Correct,"  says  Mr.  Chops.  "  And  you  shall  have  a 
princely  allowance  too." 

The  Bonnet  lifted  Mr.  Chops  upon  a  chair  to  shake 
hands  with  him,  and  replied  in  poetry,  his  eyes  seemingly 
full  of  tears :  — 

"  My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea, 
And  I  do  not  ask  for  more, 
But  I  '11  go  —  along  with  thee." 

They  went  into  society,  in  a  chaise  and  four  grays, 
•with  silk  jackets.  They  took  lodgings  in  Pall  Mall, 
London,  and  they  blazed  away. 

In  consequence  of  a  note  that  was  brought  to  Bar- 


126  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

tlemy  Fair  in  the  autumn  of  next  year  by  a  servant,  most 
wonderful  got  up  in  milk-white  cords  and  tops,  I  cleaned 
myself  and  went  to  Pall  Mall,  one  evening  appinted. 
The  gentfemen  was  at  their  wine  arter  dinner,  and  Mr. 
Chops's  eyes  was  more  fixed  in  that  Ed  of  his  than  I 
thought  good  for  him.  There  was  three  of  'em  (in  com- 
pany, I  mean),  and  I  knowed  the  third  well.  When  last 
met,  he  had  on  a  white  Roman  shirt,  and  a  bishop's 
mitre  covered  with  leopard-skin,  and  played  the  clarionet 
all  wrong,  in  a  band,  at  a  wild-beast  show. 

This  gent  took  on  not  to  know  me,  and  Mr.  Chops 
said :  "  Gentlemen,  this  is  an  old  friend  of  former  days  " ; 
and  Normandy  looked  at  me  through  a  eyeglass,  and 
said,  "  Magsman,  glad  to  see  ye  !  "  which  I  '11  take  my 
oath  he  was  n't.  Mr.  Chops,  to  get  him  convenient  to 
the  table,  had  his  chair  on  a  throne,  much  of  the  form  of 
George  Fourth's  in  the  canvas,  but  he  hardly  appeared 
to  me  to  be  King  there  in  any  other  pint  of  view,  for  his 
two  gentlemen  ordered  about  like  emperors.  They  was 
all  dressed  like  May-day  —  gorgeous  !  —  and  as  to  wine, 
they  swam  in  all  sorts. 

I  made  the  round  of  the  bottles,  first  separate  (to  say 
I  had  done  it),  and  then  tried  two  of  'em  as  half-and-half, 
then  t'  other  two.  Altogether,  I  passed  a  pleasant  even- 
in,  but  with  a  tendency  to  feel  muddled,  until  I  consid- 
ered it  good  manners  to  get  up  and  say :  "  Mr.  Chops, 
the  best  of  friends  must  part.  I  thank  you  for  the  wa- 
riety  of  foreign  drains  you  have  stood  so  'ansome.  I 
looks  towards  you  in  red  wine,  and  I  takes  my  leave." 
Mr.  Chops  replied :  "  If  you  '11  just  hitch  me  out  of  this 
over  your  right  arm,  Magsman,  and  carry  me  down  stairs, 


CHOPS   THE   DWARF.  127 

I'll  see  you  out."  I  said  I  couldn't  think  of  such  a 
thing,  but  he  would  have  it,  so  I  lifted  him  off  his 
throne.  He  smelt  strong  of  Madeary,  and  I  couldn't 
help  thinking,  as  I  carried  him  down,  that  it  was  like 
carrying  a  large  bottle  full  of  wine,  with  a  rayther  ugly 
stopper,  a  good  deal  out  of  proportion. 

When  I  set  him  on  the  door-mat  in  the  hall,  he  kept 
me  close  to  him  by  holding  on  to  my  coat-collar,  and  he 
whispers :  — 

"  I  ain't  'appy,  Magsman." 

"  What 's  on  your  mind,  Mr.  Chops  ?  " 

"  They  don't  use  me  well.  They  ain't  graceful  to  me. 
They  puts  me  on  the  mantel-piece  when  I  won't  have  in 
more  Champagne-wine,  and  they  locks  me  in  the  side- 
board when  I  won't  give  up  my  property." 

"  Git  rid  of  'em,  Mr.  Chops." 

"  I  can't.  We  're  in  society  together,  and  what  would 
society  say  ?  " 

"  Come  out  of  society,"  says  I. 

"  I  can't.  You  don't  know  what  you  're  talking  about. 
When  you  have  once  got  into  society,  you  must  n't  come 
out  of  it." 

"  Then,  if  you  '11  excuse  the  freedom,  Mr.  Chops,"  was 
my  remark,  shaking  my  ed  grave,  "  I  think  it 's  a  pity 
you  ever  went  in." 

Mr.  Chops  shook  that  deep  Ed  of  his  to  a  surprisin 
extent,  and  slapped  it  half  a  dozen  times  with  his  hand, 
and  with  more  wice  than  I  thought  were  in  him.  Then 
he  says :  "  You  're  a  good  feller,  but  you  don't  under- 
stand. Good  night,  go  long.  Magsman,  the  little  man 
will  now  walk  three  times  around  the  Cairawan,  and  re- 


128  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

tire  behind  the  curtain."  The  last  I  see  of  him  on  that 
occasion  was  his  tryin,  on  the  extremest  werge  of  insen- 
sibility, to  climb  up  the  stairs,  one  by  one,  with  his  hands 
and  knees.  They  'd  have  been  much  too  steep  for  him 
if  he  had  been  sober ;  but  he  would  n't  be  helped. 

It  war  n't  long  after  that,  that  I  read  in  the  newspaper 
of  Mr.  Chops's  being  presented  at  court.  It  was  print- 
ed :  "  It  will  be  recollected  "  —  and  I  've  noticed  in  my 
life  that  it  is  sure  to  be  printed  that  it  will  be  recollected 
whenever  it  won't  —  "that  Mr.  Chops  is  the  individual 
of  small  stature  whose  brilliant  success  in  the  last  State 
Lottery  attracted  so  much  attention."  "  Well,"  I  said 
to  myself,  "  such  is  life !  He  has  been  and  done  it  in 
earnest  at  kst !  He  has  astonished  George  the  Fourth ! " 

On  account  of  which  I  had  that  canvas  new  painted, 
him  with  a  bag  of  money  in  his  hand,  a  presentin  it  to 
George  the  Fourth,  and  a  lady  in  ostrich  feathers  fallin 
in  love  with  him  in  a  bagwig,  sword,  and  buckles  correct. 

I  took  the  house  as  is  the  subject  of  present  inquiries 
—  though  not  the  honor  of  being  acquainted  —  and  I  run 
Magsman's  Amusements  in  it  thirteen  months  —  some- 
times one  thing,  sometimes  another,  sometimes  nothin 
particular,  but  always  all  the  canvases  outside.  One 
night,  when  we  had  played  the  last  company  out,  which 
was  a  shy  company  through  its  raining  heavens  hard,  I 
was  takin  a  pipe  in  the  one  pair  back,  along  with  the 
young  man  with  the  toes,  which  I  had  taken  on  for  a 
month  (though  he  never  drawed  —  except  on  paper),  and 
I  heard  a  kickin  at  the  street  door.  "  Halloa  !  "  I  says 
to  the  young  man,  "what's  up?"  He  rubs  his  eye- 
brows with  his  toes,  and  he  says,  "I  cant  imagine, 


CHOPS    THE    DWARF.  129 

Mr.  Magsman," — which  he  never  could  imagine  nothin, 
and  was  monotonous  company. 

The  noise  not  leavin  off,  I  laid  down  my  pipe,  and  I 
took  up  a  candle,  and  I  went  down  and  opened  the  door. 
I  looked  out  into  the  street;  but  nothin  could  I  see, 
and  nothin  was  I  aware  of,  until  I  turned  round  quick, 
because  some  creeter  run  between  my  legs  into  the  pas- 
sage. There  was  Mr.  Chops  ! 

"Magsman,"  he  says,  "take  me  on  the  hold  terms, 
and  you  've  got  me  ;  if  it 's  done,  say  done ! " 

I  was  all  of  a  maze,  but  I  said,  "  Done,  sir." 

"  Done  to  your  done,  and  double  done  ! "  says  he. 
"  Have  you  got  a  bit  of  supper  in  the  house  ?  " 

Bearin  in  mind  them  sparklin  warieties  of  foreign 
drains  as  we  'd  guzzled  away  at  in  Pall  Mall,  I  was 
ashamed  to  offer  him  cold  sassages  and  gin-and-water ; 
but  he  took  'em  both  and  took  'em  free ;  havin  a  chair 
for  his  table,  and  sittin  down  at  it  on  a  stool,  like  hold 
times,  —  I  all  of  a  maze  all  the  while. 

It  was  arter  he  had  made  a  clean  sweep  of  the  sas- 
sages (beef,  and  to  the  best  of  my  calculations  two  pounds 
and  a  quarter),  that  the  wisdom  as  was  in  that  little  man 
began  to  come  out  of  him  like  perspiration. 

"Magsman,"  he  says,  "look  upon  me? — You  see 
afore  you  one  as  has  both  gone  into  society,  and  come 
out." 

"  0,  you  are  out  of  it,  Mr.  Chops  ?  How  did  you  get 
out,  sir  ?  " 

"  SOLD  OUT  !  "  says  he.  You  never  saw  the  like  of 
the  wisdom  as  his  Ed  expressed,  when  he  made  use  of 
them  two  words. 

6*  I 


130  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  My  friend  Magsman,  I  '11  impart  to  you  a  discovery 
I  've  made.  It  'a  wallable ;  it 's  cost  twelve  thousand 
five  hundred  pound ;  it  may  do  you  good  in  life.  The 
secret  of  this  matter  is,  that  it  ain't  so  much  that  a  per- 
son goes  into  society,  as  that  society  goes  into  a  person." 

Not  exactly  keeping  up  with  his  meanin,  I  shook  my 
ed,  put  on  a  deep  look,  and  said,  "  You  're  right  there, 
Mr.  Chops." 

"  Magsman,"  he  says,  twitchin  me  by  the  leg,  "  so*  '.• 
ety  has  gone  into  me  to  the  tune  of  every  penny  of  nv 
property." 

I  felt  that  I  went  pale,  and  though  not  naturally  a  bold 
speaker,  I  could  n't  hardly  say,  "  Where  's  Normandy  ?  " 

"  Bolted,  —  with  the  plate,"  said  Mr.  Chops. 

"  And  t'  other  one  ?  "  —  meaning  him  as  formerly 
wore  the  bishop's  mitre. 

"  Bolted,  —  with  the  jewels,"  said  Mr.  Chops. 

I  sat  down  and  looked  at  him,  and  he  stood  up  and 
looked  at  me. 

"  Magsman,"  he  says,  and  he  seemed  to  myself  to  get 
wiser  as  he  got  hoarser,  "  society,  taken  in  the  lump,  is 
all  dwarfs.  At  the  court  of  Saint  James  they  was  all 
a  doin  my  bisness  —  all  a  goin  three  times  round  the 
Cairawan,  in  the  hold  Court  suits  and  properties.  Else- 
where, they  was  most  of  'em  ringing  their  little  bells  out 
of  makebelieves.  Everywheres,  the  sarser  was  a  goin 
round  —  Magsman,  the  sarser  is  the  universal  institu- 
tion!" 

I  perceived,  you  understand,  that  he  was  soured  by 
his  misfortuns,  and  I  felt  for  Mr.  Chops. 

"  As  to  Tat  Ladies,"  says  he,  giving  his  Ed  a  tremen- 


CHOPS   THE    DWARF.  131 

dious  one  agin  the  wall,  "  there  's  lots  of  them  in  society, 
and  worse  than  the  original.  Hers  was  a  outrage 
upon  taste  —  simply  a  outrage  upon  taste  —  awakin 
contempt  —  carryin  its  own  punishment  in  the  form  of 
a  Indian ! "  Here  he  giv  himself  another  tremendious 
one.  "But  theirs,  Magsman,  theirs  is  mercenary  out- 
rages. Lay  in  Cashmere  shawls,  buy  bracelets,  strew 
'em  and  a  lot  of  'andsome  fans  and  things  about  your 
rooms,  let  it  be  known  that  you  give  away  like  water  to 
all  as  come  to  admire,  and  the  Fat  Ladies  that  don't  ex- 
hibit for  so  much  down  upon  the  drum  will  come  from 
all  the  pints  of  the  compass  to  flock  about  you,  whatever 
you  are.  They  '11  drill  holes  in  your  'art,  Magsman,  like 
a  cullender.  And  when  you  've  no  more  left  to  give, 
they  '11  laugh  at  you  to  your  face,  and  leave  you  to  have 
your  bones  picked  dry  by  wulturs,  like  the  dead  Wild 
Ass  of  the  Prayries  that  you  deserve  to  be ! "  Here 
he  giv  himself  the  most  tremendious  one  of  all,  and 
dropped. 

I  thought  he  was  gone.  His  Ed  was  so  heavy,  and  he 
knocked  it  so  hard,  and  he  fell  so  stony,  and  the  sassa- 
gereal  disturbance  in  him  must  have  been  so  immense,  that 
I.  thought  he  was  gone.  But  he  soon  come  round  with 
care,  and  he  sat  up  on  the  floor,  and  he  said  to  me,  with 
wisdom  comin  out  of  his  eyes,  if  ever  it  come,  — 

"  Magsman  !  The  most  material  difference  between 
the  two  states  of  existence  through  which  your  unappy 
friend  has  passed,"  —  he  reached  out  his  poor  little  hand, 
and  his  tears  dropped  down  on  the  mustache  which  it 
was  a  credit  to  him  to  have  done  his  best  to  grow,  but  it 
is  not  in  mortals  to  command  success,  —  "  the  difference  is 


132  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

this :  When  I  was  out  of  society,  I  was  paid  light  for 
being  seen.  When*  I  went  into  society,  I  paid  heavy  for 
being  seen.  I  prefer  the  former,  even  if  I  was  n't  forced 
upon  it.  Give  me  out  through  the  trumpet,  in  the  hold 
way,  to-morrow." 

After  that,  he  slid  into  the  line  again  as  easy  as  if  he 
had  been  iled  all  over.  But  the  organ  was  kep  from  him, 
and  no  allusions  was  ever  made,  when  a  company  was  in, 
to  his  property.  He  got  wiser  every  day  ;  his  views  of 
society  and  the  public  was  luminous,  bewilderin,  awful ; 
and  his  Ed  got  bigger  and  bigger  as  his  wisdom  expand- 
ed it. 

He  took  well,  and  pulled  'em  in  most  excellent  for 
nine  weeks.  At  the  expiration  of  that  period,  when  his 
Ed  was  a  sight,  he  expressed  one  evening,  the  hist  com- 
pany havin  been  turned  out,  and  the  doors  shut,  a  wish 
to  have  a  little  music. 

"Mr.  Chops,"  I  said  (I  never  dropped  the  "Mr." 
with  him  ;  the  world  might  do  it,  but  not  me),  —  "  Mr. 
Chops,  are  you  sure  as  you  are  in  a  state  of  mind  and  body 
to  sit  upon  the  organ  ?  " 

His  answer  was  this  :  "  Toby,  when  next  met  with  on 
the  tramp,  I  forgive  her  and  the  Indian.  And  I  am." 

It  was  with  fear  and  tremblin  that  I  began  to  turn 
the  handle ;  but  he  sat  like  a  lamb.  It  will  be  my  be- 
lief to  my  dying  day,  that  I  see  his  Ed  expand  as  he 
sat;  you  may  therefore  judge  how  great  his  thoughts 
was.  He  sat  out  all  the  changes,  and  then  he  come  off. 

"  Toby,"  he  says  with  a  quiet  smile,  "  the  little  mac. 
will  now  walk  three  times  round  the  Cairawan,  and  then 
retire  behind  the  curtain." 


CHOPS    THE    DWARF. 


133 


When  we  called  him  in  the  mornin  we  found  he  had 
gone  into  much  better  society  than  mine  or  Pall  Mall's. 
I  give  Mr.  Chops  as  comfortable  a  funeral  as  lay  in  my 
power,  followed  myself  as  chief,  and  had  the  George  the 
Fourth  canvas  carried  first,  in  the  form  of  a  banner. 
But  the  house  was  so  dismal  afterwards,  that  I  give  it 
up,  and  took  to  the  wan  again. 


WAKEFIELD. 


BY  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 


N  some  old  magazine  or  newspaper,  I  recollect 
a  story,  told  as  truth,  of  a  man  —  let  us  call 
him  Wakefield  —  who  absented  himself  for  a 
long  time  from  his  wife.  The  fact,  thus  abstractedly 
stated,  is  not  very  uncommon,  nor  —  without  a  proper 
distinction  of  circumstances  —  to  be  condemned  either 
as  naughty  or  nonsensical.  Howbeit,  this,  though  far 
from  the  most  aggravated,  is  perhaps  the  strangest  in- 
stance, on  record,  of  marital  delinquency  ;  and,  moreover, 
as  remarkable  a  freak  as  may  be  found  in  the  whole  list 
of  human  oddities.  The  wedded  couple  lived  in  London. 
The  man,  under  pretence  of  going  a  journey,  took  lodg- 
ings in  the  next  street  to  his  own  house,  and  there,  un- 
heard of  by  his  wife  or  friends,  and  without  the  shadow 
of  a  reason  for  such  self-banishment,  dwelt  upward  of 
twenty  years.  During  that  period  he  beheld  his  home 
every  day,  and  frequently  the  forlorn  Mrs.  Wakefield. 
And  after  so  great  a  gap  in  his  matrimonial  felicity,  — 
when  his  death  was  reckoned  certain,  his  estate  settled, 
his  name  dismissed  from  memory,  and  his  wife,  long,  long 


WAKEFIELD.  135 

ago,  resigned  to  her  autumnal  widowhood,  —  he  entered 
the  door  one  evening,  quietly,  as  from  a  day's  absence, 
and  became  a  loving  spouse  till  death. 

This  outline  is  all  that  I  remember.  But  the  incident, 
though  of  the  purest  originality,  unexampled,  and  prob. 
ably  never  to  be  repeated,  is  one,  I  think,  which  appeals 
to  the  generous  sympathies  of  mankind.  We  know,  each 
for  himself,  that  none  of  us  would  perpetrate  such  a  folly, 
yet  feel  as  if  some  other  might.  To  my  own  contempla- 
tions, at  least,  it  has  often  recurred,  always  exciting 
wonder,  but  with  a  sense  that  the  story  must  be  true, 
and  a  conception  of  its  hero's  character.  Whenever  any 
subject  so  forcibly  affects  the  mind,  time  is  well  spent  in 
thinking  of  it.  If  the  reader  choose,  let  him  do  his  own 
meditation ;  or  if  he  prefer  to  ramble  with  me  through 
the  twenty  years  of  Wakefield's  vagary,  I  bid  him  wel- 
come ;  trusting  that  there  will  be  a  pervading  spirit  and 
a  moral,  even  should  we  fail  to  find  them,  done  up  neatly, 
and  condensed  into  the  final  sentence.  Thought  has  al- 
ways its  efficacy,  and  every  striking  incident  its  moral. 

What  sort  of  man  was  Wakefield  ?  We  are  free  to 
shape  out  our  own  idea,  and  call  it  by  his  name.  He 
was  now  in  the  meridian  of  life ;  his  matrimonial  affec- 
tions, never  violent,  were  sobered  into  a  calm,  habitual 
sentiment ;  of  all  husbands,  he  was  likely  to  be  the  most 
constant,  because  a  certain  sluggishness  would  keep  his 
heart  at  rest,  wherever  it  might  be  placed.  He  was  in- 
tellectual, but  not  actively  so ;  his  mind  occupied  itself 
in  long  and  lazy  musings,  that  tended  to  no  purpose,  or 
had  not  vigor  to  attain  it ;  his  thoughts  were  seldom  so 
energetic  as  to  seize  hold  of  words.  Imagination,  in  the 


13B  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

proper  meaning  of  the  term,  made  no  part  of  Wakefield's 
gifts.  With  a  cold  but  not  depraved  nor  wandering 
heart,  and  a  mind  never  feverish  with  riotous  thoughts, 
nor  perplexed  with  originality,  who  could  have  antici- 
pated that  our  friend  would  entitle  himself  to  a  foremost 
place  among  the  doers  of  eccentric  deeds  ?  Had  his  ac- 
quaintances been  asked  who  was  the  man  in  London  the 
surest  to  perform  nothing  to-day  which  should  be  re- 
membered on  the  morrow,  they  would  have  thought  of 
Wakefield.  Only  the  wife  of  his  bosom  might  have  hesi- 
tated. She,  without  having  analyzed  his  character,  was 
partly  aware  of  a  quiet  selfishness,  that  had  rusted  into 
his  inactive  mind,  —  of  a  peculiar  sort  of  vanity,  the  most 
uneasy  attribute  about  him,  —  of  a  disposition  to  craft, 
which  had  seldom  produced  more  positive  effects  than 
the  keeping  of  petty  secrets,  hardly  worth  revealing,  — 
and,  lastly,  of  what  she  called  a  little  strangeness,  some- 
times, in  the  good  man.  This  latter  quality  is  indefina- 
ble, and  perhaps  non-existent. 

Let  us  now  imagine  Wakefield  bidding  adieu  to  his 
wife.  It  is  the  dusk  of  an  October  evening.  His  equip- 
ment is  a  drab  great-coat,  a  hat  covered  with  an  oil-cloth, 
top  boots,  an  umbrella  in  one  hand  and  a  small  portman- 
teau in  the  other.  He  has  informed  Mrs.  Wakefield  that 
he  is  to  take  the  night  coach  into  the  country.  She 
would  fain  inquire  the  length  of  his  journey,  its  object, 
and  the  probable  time  of  his  return;  but,  indulgent  to 
his  harmless  love  of  mystery,  interrogates  him  only  by 
a  look.  He  tells  her  not  to  expect  him  positively  by  the 
return  coach,  nor  to  be  alarmed  should  he  tarry  three  or 
four  days ;  but,  at  all  events,  to  look  for  him  at  supper 


WAKEFIELD.  137 

on  Friday  evening.  Wakefield  himself,  be  it  considered, 
has  no  suspicion  of  what  is  before  him.  He  holds  out 
his  hand  ;  she  gives  her  own,  and  meets  his  parting  kiss, 
in  the  matter-of-course  way  of  a  ten  years'  matrimony ; 
and  forth  goes  the  middle-aged  Mr.  Wakefield,  almost 
resolved  to  perplex  his  good  lady  by  a  whole  week's  ab- 
sence. After  the  door  has  closed  behind  him,  she  per- 
ceives it  thrust  partly  open,  and  a  vision  of  her  husband's 
face,  through  the  aperture,  smiling  on  her,  and  gone  in  a 
moment.  For  the  time,  this  little  incident  is  dismissed 
without  a  thought.  But,  long  afterward,  when  she  has 
been  more  years  a  widow  than  a  wife,  that  smile  recurs, 
and  nickers  across  all  her  reminiscences  of  Wakefield's 
visage.  In  her  many  musings,  she  surrounds  the  origi- 
nal smile  with  a  multitude  of  fantasies,  which  make  it 
strange  and  awful ;  as,  for  instance,  if  she  imagines  him 
in  a  coffin,  that  parting  look  is  frozen  on  his  pale  fea- 
tures ;  or,  if  she  dreams  of  him  in  heaven,  still  his  blessed 
spirit  wears  a  quiet  and  crafty  smile.  Yet,  for  its  sake, 
when  all  others  have  given  him  up  for  dead,  she  some- 
times doubts  whether  she  is  a  widow. 

But  our  business  is  with  the  husband.  We  must 
hurry  after  him,  along  the  street,  ere  he  lose  his  individ- 
uality, and  melt  into  the  great  mass  of  London  life.  It 
would  be  vain  searching  for  him  there.  Let  us  follow 
close  at  his  heels,  therefore,  until,  after  several  superflu- 
ous turns  and  doublings,  we  find  him  comfortably  estab- 
lished by  the  fireside  of  a  small  apartment,  previously 
bespoken.  He  is  in  the  next  street  to  his  own,  and  at 
his  journey's  end.  He  can  scarcely  trust  his  good  for- 
tune, in  having  got  thither  unperceived, — recollecting 


138  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

that,  at  one  time,  he  was  delayed  by  the  throng,  in  the 
very  focus  of  a  lighted  lantern ;  and,  again,  there  were 
footsteps,  that  seemed  to  tread  behind  his  own,  distinct 
from  the  multitudinous  tramp  around  him ;  and,  anon,  he 
heard  a  voice  shouting  afar,  and  fancied  that  it  called  his 
name.  Doubtless  a  dozen  busybodies  had  been  watch- 
ing him,  and  told  his  wife  the  whole  affair.  Poor  Wake- 
field  !  Little  knowest  thou  thine  own  insignificance  in  this 
great  world !  No  mortal  eye  but  mine  has  traced  thee. 
Go  quietly  to  thy  bed,  foolish  man ;  and,  on  the  morrow, 
if  thou  wilt  be  wise,  get  thee  home  to  good  Mrs.  Wake- 
field,  and  tell  her  the  truth.  Remove  not  thyself,  even 
for  a  little  week,  from  thy  place  in  her  chaste  bosom. 
Were  she,  for  a  single  moment,  to  deem  thee  dead,  or 
lost,  or  lastingly  divided  from  her,  thou  wouldst  be  wo- 
fully  conscious  of  a  change  in  thy  true  wife,  forever  after. 
It  is  perilous  to  make  a  chasm  in  human  affections ;  not 
that  they  gape  so  long  and  wide,  but  so  quickly  close 
again! 

Almost  repenting  of  his  frolic,  or  whatever  it  may  be 
termed,  Wakefield  lies  down  betimes,  and,  starting  from 
his  first  nap,  spreads  forth  his  arms  into  the  wide  and 
solitary  waste  of  the  unaccustomed  bed.  "  No,"  thinks 
he,  gathering  the  bedclothes  about  him,  "  I  will  not  sleep 
alone  another  night." 

In  the  morning,  he  rises  earlier  than  usual,  and  sets 
himself  to  consider  what  he  really  means  to  do.  Such 
are  his  loose  and  rambling  modes  of  thought,  that  he  has 
taken  this  very  singular  step,  with  the  consciousness  of 
a  purpose,  indeed,  but  without  being  able  to  define  it 
sufficiently  for  his  own  contemplation.  The  vagueness 


WAKEFIELD.  139 

of  the  project,  and  the  convulsive  effort  with  -which  he 
plunges  into  the  execution  of  it,  are  equally  characteris- 
tic of  a  feeble-minded  man.  Wakefield  sifts  his  ideas, 
however,  as  minutely  as  he  may,  and  finds  himself  curious 
to  know  the  progress  of  matters  at  home,  —  how  his 
exemplary  wife  will  endure  her  widowhood  of  a  week ; 
and,  briefly,  how  the  little  sphere  of  creatures  and  cir- 
cumstances, in  which  he  was  a  central  object,  will  be 
affected  by  his  removal.  A  morbid  vanity,  therefore,  lies 
nearest  the  bottom  of  the  affair.  But  how  is  he  to  attain 
his  ends  ?  Not,  certainly,  by  keeping  close  in  this  com- 
fortable lodging,  where,  though  he  slept  and  awoke  in 
the  next  street  to  his  home,  he  is  as  effectually  abroad 
as  if  the  stage-coach  had  been  whirling  him  away  all 
night.  Yet,  should  he  reappear,  the  whole  project  is 
knocked  in  the  head.  His  poor  brains  being  hopelessly 
puzzled  with  this  dilemma,  he  at  length  ventures  out, 
partly  resolving  to  cross  the  head  of  the  street,  and  send 
one  hasty  glance  toward  his  forsaken  domicile.  Habit  — 
for  he  is  a  man  of  habits  —  takes  him  by  the  hand,  and 
guides  him,  wholly  unaware,  to  his  own  door,  where, 
just  at  the  critical  moment,  he  is  aroused  by  the  scraping 
of  his  foot  upon  the  step.  Wakefield !  whither  are  you 
going  ? 

At  that  instant,  his  fate  was  turning  on  the  pivot. 
Little  dreaming  of  the  doom  to  which  his  first  backward 
step  devotes  him,  he  hurries  away,  breathless  with  agita- 
tion hitherto  unfelt,  and  hardly  dares  turn  his  head  at 
the  distant  corner.  Can  it  be  that  nobody  caught  sight 
of  him?  Will  not  the  whole  household  —  the  decent 
Mrs.  Wakefield,  the  smart-  maid-servant,  and  the  dirtj 


140  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

little  footboy  —  raise  a  hue  and  cry,  through  London 
streets,  in  pursuit  of  their  fugitive  lord  and  master  P 
Wonderful  escape !  He  gathers  courage  to  pause  and 
look  homeward,  but  is  perplexed  with  a  sense  of  change 
about  the  familiar  edifice,  such  as  affects  us  all  when, 
after  a  separation  of  months  or  years,  we  again  see  some 
hill  or  lake,  or  work  of  art,  with  which  we  were  friends 
of  old.  In  ordinary  cases,  this  indescribable  impression, 
is  caused  by  the  comparison  and  contrast  between  our 
imperfect  reminiscences  and  the  reality.  In  Wakefield, 
the  magic  of  a  single  night  has  wrought  a  similar  trans* 
formation,  because,  in  that  brief  period,  a  great  moral 
change  has  been  effected.  But  this  is  a  secret  from  him- 
self. Before  leaving  the  spot,  he  catches  a  far  and  mo- 
mentary glimpse  of  his  wife,  passing  athwart  the  front 
window,  with  her  face  turned  toward  the  head  of  the 
street.  The  crafty  nincompoop  takes  to  his  heels,  scared 
with  the  idea  that,  among  a  thousand  such  atoms  of 
mortality,  her  eye  must  have  detected  him.  Right  glad 
is  his  heart,  though  his  brain  be  somewhat  dizzy,  when 
he  finds  himself  by  the  coal  fire  of  his  lodgings. 

So  much  for  the  commencement  of  this  long  whim- 
wham.  After  the  initial  conception,  and  the  stirring  up 
of  the  man's  sluggish  temperament  to  put  it  in  practice, 
the  whole  matter  evolves  itself  in  a  natural  train.  We 
may  suppose  him,  as  the  result  of  deep  deliberation,  buy- 
ing a  new  wig,  of  reddish  hair,  and  selecting  sundry 
garments,  in  a  fashion  unlike  his  customary  suit  of  brown, 
from  a  Jew's  old-clothes  bag.  It  is  accomplished. 
Wakefield  is  another  man.  The  new  system  being  now 
established,  a  retrograde  movement  to  the  old  would  be 


WAKEFIELD.  141 

almost  as  difficult  as  the  step  that  placed  him  in  his  un- 
paralleled position.  Furthermore,  he  is  rendered  obsti- 
nate by  a  sulkiness,  occasionally  incident  to  his  temper, 
and  brought  on,  at  present,  by  the  inadequate  sensation 
which  he  conceives  to  have  been  produced  in  the  bosom 
of  Mrs.  Wakefield.  He  will  not  go  back  until  she  be 
frightened  half  to  death.  Well ;  twice  or  thrice  has  she 
passed  before  his  sight,  each  tune  with  a  heavier  step,  a 
paler  cheek,  and  a  more  anxious  brow  ;  and  in  the  third 
week  of  his  non-appearance,  he  detects  a  portent  of  evil 
entering  the  house,  in  the  guise  of  an  apothecary.  Next 
day,  the  knocker  is  muffled.  Toward  nightfall  comes 
the  chariot  of  a  physician,  and  deposits  its  big-wigged 
and  solemn  burden  at  Wakefield's  door,  whence,  after  a 
quarter  of  an  hour's  visit,  he  emerges,  perchance  the 
herald  of  a  funeral.  Dear  woman  !  Will  she  die  ?  By 
this  time,  Wakefield  is  excited  to  something  like  energy 
of  feeling,  but  still  lingers  away  from  his  wife's  bedside, 
pleading  with  his  conscience,  that  she  must  not  be  dis- 
turbed at  such  a  juncture.  If  aught  else  restrains  him, 
he  does  not  know  it.  In  the  course  of  a  few  weeks,  she 
gradually  recovers ;  the  crisis  is  over ;  her  heart  is  sad, 
perhaps,  but  quiet ;  and,  let  him  return  soon  or  late,  it 
will  never  be  feverish  for  him  again.  Such  ideas  glim- 
mer through  the  mist  of  Wakefield's  mind,  and  render 
him  indistinctly  conscious  that  an  almost  impassable  gulf 
divides  bis  hired  apartment  from  his  former  home.  "  It 
is  but  in  the  next  street !  "  he  sometimes  says.  Fool !  it 
is  in  another  world.  Hitherto,  he  has  put  off  his  return 
from  one  particular  day  to  another;  henceforward,  he 
leaves  the  precise  time  undetermined.  Not  to-morrow, 


142  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

—  probably  next  week,  —  pretty  soon.  Poor  man '. 
The  dead  have  nearly  as  much  chance  of  revisiting  their 
earthly  homes,  as  the  self-banished  Wakefield. 

Would  that  I  had  a  folio  to  write,  instead  of  an  article 
of  a  dozen  pages  !  Then  might  I  exemplify  how  an  in- 
fluence, beyond  our  control,  lays  its  strong  hand  on  every 
deed  which  we  do,  and  weaves  its  consequences  into  an 
iron  tissue  of  necessity.  Wakefield  is  spellbound.  We 
must  leave  him,  for  ten  years  or  so,  to  haunt  around  his 
house,  without  once  crossing  the  threshold,  and  to  be 
faithful  to  his  wife,  with  all  the  affection  of  which  his 
heart  is  capable,  while  he  is  slowly  fading  out  of  hers. 
Long  since,  it  must  be  remarked,  he  has  lost  the  percep- 
tion of  singularity  in  his  conduct. 

Now  for  a  scene !  Amid  the  throng  of  a  London 
street,  we  distinguish  a  man,  now  waxing  elderly,  with 
few  characteristics  to  attract  careless  observers,  yet  bear- 
ing, in  his  whole  aspect,  the  handwriting  of  no  common 
fate,  for  such  as  have  the  skill  to  read  it.  He  is  meagre ; 
his  low  and  narrow  forehead  is  deeply  wrinkled ;  his  eyes, 
small  and  lustreless,  sometimes  wander  apprehensively 
about  him,  but  oftener  seem  to  look  inward.  He  bends 
his  head,  and  moves  with  an  indescribable  obliquity  of 
gait,  as  if  unwilling  to  display  his  full  front  to  the 
world.  Watch  him  long  enough  to  see  what  we  have 
described,  and  you  will  allow  that  circumstances,  which 
often  produce  remarkable  men  from  nature's  ordinary 
handiwork,  have  produced  one  such  here.  Next,  leaving 
him  to  sidle  along  the  footwalk,  cast  your  eyes  in  the 
opposite  direction,  where  a  portly  female,  considerably  in 
the  wane  of  life,  with  a  prayer-book  in  her  hand,  is  pro- 


WAKEFIELD.  ]  43 

ceeding  to  yonder  church.  She  has  the  placid  mien  of 
settled  widowhood.  Her  regrets  have  either  died  away, 
or  have  become  so  essential  to  her  heart  that  they  would 
be  poorly  exchanged  for  joy.  Just  as  the  lean  man  and 
the  well-conditioned  woman  are  passing,  a  slight  obstruc- 
tion occurs,  and  brings  these  two  figures  directly  in  con- 
tact. Their  hands  touch ;  the  pressure  of  the  crowd 
forces  her  bosom  against  his  shoulder ;  they  stand  face 
to  face,  staring  into  each  other's  eyes.  After  a  ten  years' 
separation,  thus  Wakefield  meets  his  wife  ! 

The  throng  eddies  away,  and  carries  them  asunder. 
The  sober  widow,  resuming  her  former  pace,  proceeds  to 
church,  but  pauses  in  the  portal,  and  throws  a  perplexed 
glance  along  the  street.  She  passes  in,  however,  opening 
her  prayer-book  as  she  goes.  And  the  man !  with  so 
wild  a  face  that  busy  and  selfish  London  stands  to  gaze 
after  him,  he  hurries  to  his  lodgings,  bolts  the  door,  and 
throws  himself  upon  the  bed.  The  latent  feelings  of  years 
break  out ;  his  feeble  mind  acquires  a  brief  energy  from 
their  strength ;  all  the  miserable  strangeness  of  his  life 
is  revealed  to  him  at  a  glance :  and  he  cries  out  passion- 
ately, "Wakefield !  Wakefield !  you  are  mad !  " 

Perhaps  he  was  so.  The  singularity  of  his  situation 
must  have  so  moulded  him  to  himself,  that,  considered  in 
regard  to  his  fellow-creatures  and  the  business  of  life,  he 
could  not  be  said  to  possess  his  right  mind.  He  had 
contrived,  or  rather  he  had  happened,  to  dissever  him- 
self from  the  world,  —  to  vanish,  —  to  give  up  his  place 
and  privileges  with  living  men,  without  being  admitted 
among  the  dead.  The  life  of  a  hermit  is  nowise  parallel 
to  his.  He  was  in  the  bustle  of  the  city,  as  of  old ;  but 


144  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

the  crowd  swept  by,  and  saw  him  not ;  he  was,  we  may 
figuratively  say,  always  beside  his  wife,  and  at  his  hearth, 
yet  must  never  feel  the  warmth  of  the  one,  nor  the  affec- 
tion of  the  other.  It  was  Wakefield's  unprecedented 
fate  to  retain  his  original  share  of  human  sympathies,  and 
to  be  still  involved  in  human  interests,  while  he  had  lost 
his  reciprocal  influence  on  them.  It  would  be  a  most 
curious  speculation  to  trace  out  the  effect  of  such  cir- 
cumstances on  his  heart  and  intellect,  separately,  and  in 
unison.  Yet,  changed  as  he  was,  he  would  seldom  be 
conscious  of  it,  but  deem  himself  the  same  man  as  ever ; 
glimpses  of  the  truth,  indeed,  would  come>  but  only  for 
the  moment ;  and  still  he  would  keep  saying,  "  I  shall 
soon  go  back  !  "  —  nor  reflect  that  he  had  been  saying  so 
for  twenty  years. 

I  conceive,  also,  that  these  twenty  years  would  appear, 
in  the  retrospect,  scarcely  longer  than  the  week  to  which 
Wakefield  had  at  first  limited  his  absence.  He  would 
look  on  the  affair  as  no  more  than  an  interlude  in  the 
main  business  of  his  life.  When,  after  a  little  while  more, 
he  should  deem  it  time  to  re-enter  his  parlor,  his  wife 
would  clap  her  hands  for  joy,  on  beholding  the  middle- 
aged  Mr.  Wakefield.  Alas,  what  a  mistake !  Would 
Time  but  await  the  close  of  our  favorite  follies,  we  should 
be  young  men,  all  of  us,  and  till  Doomsday. 

One  evening,  in  the  twentieth  year  since  he  vanished, 
Wakefield  is  taking  his  customary  walk  toward  the  dwell- 
ing which  he  still  calls  his  own.  It  is  a  gusty  night  of 
autumn,  with  frequent  showers,  that  patter  down  upon 
the  pavement,  and  are  gone,  before  a  man  can  put  up  his 
umbrella.  Pausing  near  the  house,  Wakefield  discerns, 


WAKEFIELD.  145 

through  the  parlor  windows  of  the  second  floor,  the  red 
glow,  and  the  glimmer  and  fitful  flash,  of  a  comfortable 
fire.  On  the  ceiling  appears  a  grotesque  shadow  of  good 
Mrs.  Wakefield.  The  cap,  the  nose  and  chin,  and  the 
broad  waist  form  an  admirable  caricature,  which  dances, 
moreover,  with  the  up-flickering  and  down-sinking  blaze, 
almost  too  merrily  for  the  shade  of  an  elderly  widow. 
At  this  instant,  a  shower  chances  to  fall,  and  is  driven, 
by  the  unmannerly  gust,  full  into  Wakefield's  face  and 
bosom.  He  is  quite  penetrated  with  its  autumnal  chill. 
Shall  he  stand,  wet  and  shivering  here,  when  his  own 
hearth  has  a  good  fire  to  warm  him,  and  his  own  wife 
will  run  to  fetch  the  gray  coat  and  small-clothes,  which, 
doubtless,  she  has  kept  carefully  in  the  closet  of  their 
bedchamber  ?  No !  Wakefield  is  no  such  fool.  He 
ascends  the  steps,  —  heavily !  —  for  twenty  years  have 
stiffened  his  legs,  since  he  came  down,  —  but  he  knows 
it  not.  Stay,  Wakefield !  Would  you  go  to  the  sole 
home  that  is  left  you  ?  Then  step  into  your  grave !  The 
door  opens.  As  he  passes  in,  we  have  a  parting  glimpse 
of  his  visage,  and  recognize  the  crafty  smile  which  was 
the  precursor  of  the  little  joke  that  he  has  ever  since 
been  playing  off  at  his  wife's  expense.  How  unmercifully 
has  he  quizzed  the  poor  woman !  Well,  a  good  night's 
rest  to  Wakefield ! 

This  happy  event  —  supposing  it  to  be  such  —  could 
only  have  occurred  at  an  unpremeditated  moment.  We 
will  not  follow  our  friend  across  the  threshold.  He  has 
left  us  much  food  for  thought,  a  portion  of  which  shall 
lend  its  wisdom  to  a  moral,  and  be  shaped  into  a  figure. 
4mid  the  seeming  confusion  of  our  mysterious  world, 

VOL.  ii.  7  J 


146 


LITTLE    CLASSICS. 


individuals  are  so  nicely  adjusted  to  a  system,  and  sys* 
tems  to  one  another  and  to  a  whole,  that,  by  stepping 
aside  for  a  moment,  a  man  exposes  himself  to  a  fearful 
risk  of  losing  his  place  forever.  Like  Wakefield,  he  may 
become,  as  it  were,  the  Outcast  of  the  Universe. 


MURDER, 

CONSIDERED  AS  ONE  OF  THE  FINE  AETS. 
BY  THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY. 

JE  have  all  heard  of  a  Society  for  the  Promotion 
of  Vice,  of  the  Hell-Fire  Club,  etc.  At  Brigh- 
ton, I  think  it  was,  that  a  Society  was  formed 
for  the  Suppression  of  Virtue.  That  Society  was  itself 
suppressed;  but  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  another  exists 
in  London,  of  a  character  still  more  atrocious.  In  ten- 
dency, it  may  be  denominated  a  Society  for  the  Encour- 
agement of  Murder;  but,  according  to  their  own  delicate 
et</>J7/M07«>r,  it  is  styled,  The  Society  of  Connoisseurs  in 
Murder.  They  profess  to  be  curious  in  homicide ;  ama- 
teurs and  dilettanti  in  the  various  modes  of  bloodshed; 
and,  in  short,  murder-fanciers.  Every  fresh  atrocity  of 
that  class,  which  the  police  annals  of  Europe  bring  up, 
they  meet  and  criticise  as  they  would  a  picture,  statue, 
or  other  work  of  art.  But  I  need  not  trouble  myself 
with  any  attempt  to  describe  the  spirit  of  their  proceed- 
ings, as  you  will  collect  that  much  better  from  one  of 
the  monthly  lectures  read  before  the  society  last  year. 
This  has  fallen  into  my  hands,  accidentally,  in  spite  of 


148  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

all  the  vigilance  exercised  to  keep  their  transactions  from 
the  public  eye.  The  publication  of  it  will  alarm  them ; 
and  my  purpose  is  that  it  should.  For  I  would  much 
rather  put  them  down  quietly,  by  an  appeal  to  public 
opinion,  than  by  such  an  exposure  of  names  as  would 
follow  an  appeal  to  Bow  Street ;  which  last  appeal,  how- 
ever, if  this  should  fail,  I  must  positively  resort  to. 

LECTURE. 

GENTLEMEN, — I  have  had  the  honor  to  be  appointed  by 
your  committee  to  the  trying  task  of  reading  the  Williams 
Lecture  on  Murder,  considered  as  one  of  the  Fine  Arts;  a 
task  which  might  be  easy  enough  three  or  four  centuries 
ago,  when  the  art  was  little  understood,  and  few  great 
models  had  been  exhibited ;  but  in  this  age,  when  mas- 
terpieces of  excellence  have  been  executed  by  professional 
men,  it  must  be  evident  that,  in  the  style  of  criticism 
applied  to  them,  the  public  will  look  for  something  of  a 
corresponding  improvement.  Practice  and  theory  must 
advance  pan  passu.  People  begin  to  see  that  something 
more  goes  to  the  composition  of  a  fine  murder  than  two 
blockheads  to  kill  and  be  killed,  —  a  knife,  —  a  purse,  — 
and  a  dark  lane.  Design,  gentlemen,  grouping,  light  and 
shade,  poetry,  sentiment,  are  now  deemed  indispensable 
to  attempts  of  this  nature.  Mr.  Williams  has  exalted  the 
ideal  of  murder  to  all  of  us;  and  to  me,  therefore,  in 
particular,  has  deepened  the  arduousness  of  my  task. 
Like  jEschylus  or  Milton  in  poetry,  like  Michael  Angelo 
in  painting,  he  has  carried  his  art  to  a  point  of  colossal 
Bublimity ;  and,  as  Mr.  Wordsworth  observes,  has  in  a 


MURDER  AS  A  FINE   ART.  149 

manner  "  created  the  taste  by  which  he  is  to  be  enjoyed." 
To  sketch  the  history  of  the  art,  and  to  examine  its  prin- 
ciples critically,  now  remains  as  a  duty  for  the  connois- 
seur, and  for  judges  of  quite  another  stamp  from  his 
Majesty's  Judges  of  Assize. 

Before  I  begin,  let  me  say  a  word  or  two  to  certain 
prigs,  who  affect  to  speak  of  our  society  as  if  it  were  in 
some  degree  immoral  in  its  tendency.  Immoral!  God 
bless  my  soul,  gentlemen,  what  is  it  that  people  mean  ? 
I  am  for  morality,  and  always  shall  be,  and  for  virtue 
and  all  that ;  and  I  do  affirm,  and  always  shall  (let  what 
will  come  of  it),  that  murder  is  an  improper  line  of  con- 
duct, highly  improper ;  and  I  do  not  stick  to  assert  that 
any  man  who  deals  in  murder  must  have  very  incorrect 
ways  of  thinking,  and  truly  inaccurate  principles ;  and  so 
far  from  aiding  and  abetting  him  by  pointing  out  his 
victim's  hiding-place,  as  a  great  moralist*  of  Germany 
declared  it  to  be  every  good  man's  duty  to  do,  I  would 
subscribe  one  shilling  and  sixpence  to  have  him  appre- 
hended, which  is  more  by  eighteen-pence  than  the  most 
eminent  moralists  have  subscribed  for  that  purpose.  But 
what  then  ?  Everything  in  this  world  has  two  handles. 

*  Kant,  who  carried  Ms  demands  of  unconditional  veracity 
to  so  extravagant  a  length  as  to  affirm,  that,  if  a  man  were  to 
see  an  innocent  person  escape  from  a  murderer,  it  would  be  his 
duty,  on  heing  questioned  by  the  murderer,  to  tell  the  truth, 
and  to  point  out  the  retreat  of  the  innocent  person,  under  any 
certainty  of  causing  murder.  Lest  this  doctrine  should  be 
supposed  to  have  escaped  him  in  any  heat  of  dispute,  on  being 
taxed  with  it  by  a  celebrated  French  writer,  he  solemnly  re- 
affirmed it,  with  his  reasons. 


150  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Murder,  for  instance,  may  be  laid  hold  of  by  its  moral 
handle  (as  it  generally  is  in  the  pulpit,  and  at  the  Old 
Bailey) ;  and  that,  I  confess,  is  its  weak  side ;  or  it  may 
also  be  treated  aesthetically,  as  the  Germans  call  it,  that 
is,  in  relation  to  good  taste. 

To  illustrate  this,  I  will  urge  the  authority  of  three 
eminent  persons,  namely,  S.  T.  Coleridge,  Aristotle,  and 
Mr.  Howship  the  surgeon.  To  begin  with  S.  T.  C. 
One  night,  many  years  ago,  I  was  drinking  tea  with  him 
in  Berners  Street  (which,  by  the  way,  for  a  short  street, 
has  been  uncommonly  fruitful  in  men  of  genius).  Others 
were  there  besides  myself;  and  amidst  some  carnal  con- 
siderations of  tea  and  toast,  we  were  all  imbibing  a  dis- 
sertation on  Plotinus  from  the  attic  lips  of  S.  T.  C. 
Suddenly  a  cry  arose  of  "  Fire,  — fire  !  "  upon  which  all 
of  us,  master  and  disciples,  Plato  and  61  irtpi  TOV  IlXd- 
TOJI/O,  rushed  out,  eager  for  the  spectacle.  The  fire  was 
in  Oxford  Street,  at  a  piano-forte  maker's;  and,  as  it 
promised  to  be  a  conflagration  of  merit,  I  was  sorry  that 
my  engagements  forced  me  away  from  Mr.  Coleridge's 
party  before  matters  were  come  to  a  crisis.  Some  days 
after,  meeting  with  my  Platonic  host,  I  reminded  him  of 
the  case,  and  begged  to  know  how  that  very  promising 
exhibition  had  terminated.  "  O  sir,"  said  he,  "  it  turned 
out  so  ill,  that  we  damned  it  unanimously !  "  Now,  docs 
any  man  suppose  that  Mr.  Coleridge,  —  who,  for  all  he 
is  too  fat  to  be  a  person  of  active  virtue,  is  undoubtedly 
a  worthy  Christian,  — that  this  good  S.  T.  C.,  I  say,  was 
an  incendiary,  or  capable  of  wishing  any  ill  to  the  poor 
man  and  his  piano-fortes  (many  of  them,  doubtless,  with 
the  additional  keys)  ?  On  the  contrary,  I  know  him  to 


MURDER   AS   A   PINE   ART.  151 

be  that  sort  of  man,  that  I  durst  stake  my  life  upon  it  he 
would  have  worked  an  engine  in  a  case  of  necessity, 
although  rather  of  the  fattest  for  such  fiery  trials  of  his 
virtue.  But  how  stood  the  case?  Virtue  was  in  no 
request.  On  the  arrival  of  the  fire-engines,  morality  had 
devolved  wholly  on  the  insurance  office.  This  being  the 
case,  he  had  a  right  to  gratify  his  taste.  He  had  left  his 
tea.  Was  he  to  have  nothing  in  return  ? 

I  contend  that  the  most  virtuous  man,  under  the 
premises  stated,  was  entitled  to  make  a  luxury  of  the 
fire,  and  to  hiss  it,  as  he  would  any  other  performance 
that  raised  expectations  in  the  public  mind,  which  after- 
wards it  disappointed.  Again,  to  cite  another  great 
authority,  what  says  the  Stagyrite?  He  (in  the  Fifth 
Book,  I  think  it  is,  of  his  Metaphysics)  describes  what 
he  calls  (cArrr-r^i/  rtXtiov,  i.  e.  a  perfect  thief ;  and,  as  to 
Mr.  Howship,  in  a  work  of  his  on  Indigestion,  he  makes 
no  scruple  to  talk  with  admiration  of  a  certain  ulcer 
which  he  had  seen,  and  which  he  styles  "  a  beautiful 
ulcer."  Now  will  any  man  pretend  that,  abstractly  con- 
sidered, a  thief  could  appear  to  Aristotle  a  perfect  char- 
acter, or  that  Mr.  Howship  could  be  enamored  of  an 
ulcer  ?  Aristotle,  it  is  well  known,  was  himself  so  very 
moral  a  character  that,  not  content  with  writing  his 
Nichomachean  Ethics,  in  one  volume  octavo,  he  also 
wrote  another  system,  called  Magna  Moralia,  or  Big 
Ethics.  Now,  it  is  impossible  that  a  man  who  composes 
any  ethics  at  all,  big  or  little,  should  admire  a  thief  per  se  ; 
and,  as  to  Mr.  Howship,  it  is  well  known  that  he  makes 
war  upon  all  ulcers,  and,  without  suffering  himself  to  be 
seduced  by  their  charms,  endeavors  to  banish  them  from 


152  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

the  county  of  Middlesex.  But  the  truth  is,  that,  how- 
ever objectionable  per  se,  yet,  relatively  to  others  of  their 
class,  both  a  thief  and  an  ulcer  may  have  infinite  degrees 
of  merit.  They  are  both  imperfections,  it  is  true ;  but 
to  be  imperfect  being  their  essence,  the  very  greatness 
of  their  imperfection  becomes  their  perfection.  Spartam 
nactus  es,  hanc  exorna.  A  thief  like  Autolycus  or  Mr. 
Barrington,  and  a  grim  phagedsenic  ulcer,  superbly  de- 
fined, and  running  regularly  through  all  its  natural  stages, 
may  no  less  justly  be  regarded  as  ideals  after  their  kind, 
than  the  most  faultless  moss-rose  amongst  flowers,  in  its 
progress  from  bud  to  "  bright  consummate  flower  " ;  or, 
amongst  human  flowers,  the  most  magnificent  young 
female,  apparelled  in  the  pomp  of  womanhood.  And 
thus  not  only  the  ideal  of  an  inkstand  may  be  imagined 
(as  Mr.  Coleridge  demonstrated  in  his  celebrated  cor- 
respondence with  Mr.  Blackwood),  in  which,  by  the  way, 
there  is  not  so  much,  because  an  inkstand  is  a  laudable 
sort  of  thing,  and  a  valuable  member  of  society;  but 
even  imperfection  itself  may  have  its  ideal  or  perfect 
state. 

Really,  gentlemen,  I  beg  pardon  for  so  much  philos- 
ophy at  one  time,  and  now  let  me  apply  it.  When  a 
murder  is  in  the  paulo-post-futurum  tense,  and  a  rumor 
of  it  comes  to  our  ears,  by  all  means  let  us  treat  it  mor- 
ally. But  suppose  it  over  and  done,  and  that  you  can 
say  of  it,  TrrtXtrat,  or  (in  that  adamantine  molossus  of 
Medea)  et/>£arcu  ;  suppose  the  poor  murdered  man  to  be 
out  of  his  pain,  and  the  rascal  that  did  it  off  like  a  shot, 
nobody  knows  whither;  suppose,  lastly,  that  we  have 
done  our  best,  by  putting  out  our  legs  to  trip  up  the 


MURDER   AS    A   FINE   ART.  153 

fellow  in  his  flight,  but  all  to  no  purpose,  —  "abiit, 
evasit,"  etc.,  —  why,  then,  I  say,  what 's  the  use  of  any 
more  virtue  ?  Enough  has  been  given  to  morality ;  now 
comes  the  turn  of  Taste  and  the  Fine  Arts.  A  sad  thing 
it  was,  no  doubt,  very  sad ;  but  we  can't  mend  it.  There- 
fore let  us  make  the  best  of  a  bad  matter ;  and  as  it  is 
impossible  to  hammer  anything  out  of  it  for  moral  pur- 
poses, let  us  treat  it  aesthetically,  and  see  if  it  will  turn 
to  account  in  that  way.  Such  is  the  logic  of  a  sensible 
man,  and  what  follows?  We  dry  up  our  tears,  and 
have  the  satisfaction,  perhaps,  to  discover  that  a  transac- 
tion which,  morally  considered,  was  shocking,  and  with- 
out a  leg  to  stand  upon,  when  tried  by  principles  of 
Taste,  turns  out  to  be  a  very  meritorious  performance. 
Thus  all  the  world  is  pleased ;  the  old  proverb  is  justi- 
fied, that  it  is  an  ill  wind  which  blows  nobody  good ;  the 
amateur,  from  looking  bilious  and  sulky,  by  too  close  an 
attention  to  virtue,  begins  to  pick  up  his  crumbs,  and 
general  hilarity  prevails.  Virtue  has  had  her  day ;  and 
henceforward,  Vertu  and  Connoisseurship  have  leave  to 
provide  for  themselves.  Upon  this  principle,  gentlemen, 
I  propose  to  guide  your  studies,  from  Cain  to  Mr.  Thur- 
tell.  Through  this  great  gallery  of  murder,  therefore, 
together  let  us  wander  hand  in  hand,  in  delighted  admi- 
ration, while  I  endeavor  to  point  your  attention  to  the 
objects  of  profitable  criticism. 


The  first  murder  is  familiar  to  you  all.    As  the  in- 
rentor  of  murder,  and  the  father  of  the  art.  Cab  must 
7* 


154  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

have  been  a  man  of  first-rate  genius.  All  the  Cains  were 
men  of  genius.  Tubal  Cain  invented  tubes,  I  think,  or 
some  such  thing.  But,  whatever  were  the  originality 
and  genius  of  the  artist,  every  art  was  then  in  its  iii- 
fancy,  and  the  works  must  be  criticised  with  a  recollec- 
tion of  that  fact.  Even  Tubal's  work  would  probably 
be  little  approved  at  this  day  in  Sheffield;  and  there- 
fore of  Cain  (Cain  senior,  I  mean)  it  is  no  disparage- 
ment to  say,  that  his  performance  was  but  so  so.  Mil- 
ton, however,  is  supposed  to  have  thought  differently. 
By  his  way  of  relating  the  case,  it  should  seem  to 
have  been  rather  a  pet  murder  with  him,  for  he  re- 
touches it  with  an  apparent  anxiety  for  its  picturesque 
effect :  — 

"  Whereat  he  inly  raged ;  and,  as  they  talk'd, 
Smote  him  into  the  midriff  with  a  stone 
That  beat  out  life :  he  fell ;  and,  deadly  pale, 
Groan'd  out  his  soul  loith  gushing  blood  effus'd." 

Far.  Lost,  B.  XI. 

Upon  this,  Richardson,  the  painter,  who  had  an  eye 
for  effect,  remarks  as  follows,  in  his  Notes  on  Paradise 
Lost,  p.  497 :  "  It  has  been  thought,"  says  he,  "  that 
Cain  beat  (as  the  common  saying  is)  the  breath  out  of 
his  brother's  body  with  a  great  stone ;  Milton  gives  in 
to  this,  with  the  addition,  however,  of  a  large  wound." 
In  this  place  it  was  a  judicious  addition ;  for  the  rude- 
ness of  the  weapon,  unless  raised  and  enriched  by  a 
warm,  sanguinary  coloring,  has  too  much  of  the  naked 
air  of  the  savage  school ;  as  if  the  deed  were  perpetrated 
by  a  Polypheme  without  science,  premeditation,  or  any- 


MURDER    AS    A   FINE   ART.  155 

thing  but  a  mutton  bone.  However,  I  am  chiefly  pleased 
with  the  improvement,  as  it  implies  that  Milton  was  an 
amateur.  As  to  Shakespeare,  there  never  was  a  bettei ; 
as  his  description  of  the  murdered  Duke  of  Gloucester! 
in  Henry  VI.,  of  Duncan's,  Banquo's,  etc.,  sufficiently 
proves. 

The  foundation  of  the  art  having  been  once  laid,  it  is 
pitiable  to  see  how  it  slumbered  without  improvement 
for  ages.  In  fact,  I  shall  now  be  obliged  to  leap  over  all 
murders,  sacred  and  profane,  as  utterly  unworthy  of 
notice,  until  long  after  the  Christian  era.  Greece,  even 
in  the  age  of  Pericles,  produced  no  murder  of  the  slight- 
est merit ;  and  Rome  had  too  little  originality  of  genius 
in  any  of  the  arts  to  succeed,  where  her  model  failed  her. 
In  fact,  the  Latin  language  sinks  under  the  very  idea  of 
murder.  "  The  man  was  murdered  "  ;  —  how  will  this 
sound  in  Latin  ?  Interfectus  est,  interemptus  eat,  — 
which  simply  expresses  a  homicide ;  and  hence  the  Chris- 
tian Latinity  of  the  Middle  Ages  was  obliged  to  introduce 
a  new  word,  such  as  the  feebleness  of  classic  conceptions 
never  ascended  to.  Murdratus  est,  says  the  sublimer 
dialect  of  Gothic  ages.  Meantime,  the  Jewish  school  of 
murder  kept  alive  whatever  was  yet  known  in  the  art, 
and  gradually  transferred  it  to  the  Western  World.  In- 
deed the  Jewish  school  was  always  respectable,  even 
in  the  dark  ages,  as  the  case  of  Hugh  of  Lincoln 
shows,  which  was  honored  with  the  approbation  of 
Chaucer,  on  occasion  of  another  performance  from  the 
same  school  which  he  puts  into  the  mouth  of  the  Lady 
Abbess. 

Recurring,    however,   for   one   moment   to   classical 


156  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

antiquity,  I  cannot  but  think  that  Catiline,  Clodius,  and 
some  of  that  coterie  would  have  made  first-rate  artists ; 
and  it  is  on  all  accounts  to  be  regretted,  that  the  prig- 
gism  of  Cicero  robbed  his  country  of  the  only  chance  she 
had  for  distinction  in  this  line.  As  the  subject  of  a  mur- 
der, no  person  could  have  answered  better  than  himself. 
Lord !  how  he  would  have  howled  with  panic,  if  he  had 
heard  Cethegus  under  his  bed.  It  would  have  been  truly 
diverting  to  have  listened  to  him;  and  satisfied  I  am, 
gentlemen,  that  he  would  have  preferred  the  utile  of 
creeping  into  a  closet,  or  even  into  a  cloaca,  to  the 
honestum  of  facing  the  bold  artist. 

To  come  now  to  the  dark  ages  (by  which  we,  that 
speak  with  precision,  mean,  par  excellence,  the  tenth 
century,  and  the  times  immediately  before  and  after), 
these  ages  ought  naturally  to  be  favorable  to  the  art  of 
murder,  as  they  were  to  church  architecture,  to  stained 
glass,  etc. ;  and,  accordingly,  about  the  latter  end  of  this 
period,  there  arose  a  great  character  in  our  art,  I  mean 
the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountains.  He  was  a  shining  light, 
indeed,  and  I  need  not  tell  you  that  the  very  word  "  as- 
sassin "  is  deduced  from  him.  So  keen  an  amateur  was 
he,  that  on  one  occasion,  when  his  own  life  was  attempted 
by  a  favorite  assassin,  he  was  so  much  pleased  with  the 
talent  shown,  that,  notwithstanding  the  failure  of  the 
artist,  he  created  him  a  Duke  upon  the  spot,  with  re- 
mainder to  the  female  line,  and  settled  a  pension  on  him 
for  three  lives.  Assassination  is  a  branch  of  the  art 
which  demands  a  separate  notice ;  and  I  shall  devote  an 
entire  lecture  to  it.  Meantime,  I  shall  only  observe  how 
odd  it  is  that  this  branch  of  the  art  has  flourished  by  fits. 


MURDER   AS    A   FINE    ART.  157 

It  never  rains,  but  it  pours.  Our  own  age  can  boast  of 
some  fine  specimens ;  and  about  two  centuries  ago  there 
was  a  most  brilliant  constellation  of  murders  in  this 
class.  I  need  hardly  say  that  I  allude  especially  to  those 
five  splendid  works,  —  the  assassinations  of  William  I., 
of  Orange,  of  Henry  IV.,  of  France,  of  the  Duke  of 
Buckingham  (which  you  will  find  excellently  described 
in  the  letters  published  by  Mr.  Ellis,  of  the  British  Mu- 
seum), of  Gustavus  Adolphus,  and  of  Wallenstein.  The 
King  of  Sweden's  assassination,  by  the  by,  is  doubted 
by  many  writers,  Harte  amongst  others ;  but  they  are 
wrong.  He  was  murdered ;  and  I  consider  his  murder 
unique  in  its  excellence ;  for  he  was  murdered  at  noon- 
day, and  on  the  field  of  battle,  —  a  feature  of  original 
conception,  which  occurs  in  no  other  work  of  art  that  I 
remember.  Indeed,  all  of  these  assassinations  may  be 
studied  with  profit  by  the  advanced  connoisseur.  They 
are  all  of  them  exemplaria,  of  which  one  may  say,  — 

"  Nocturna  versata  rnanu,  versate  diurne  "  ; 

especially  nocturna. 

In  these  assassinations  of  princes  and  statesmen,  there 
is  nothing  to  excite  our  wonder ;  important  changes  often 
depend  on  their  deaths ;  and,  from  the  eminence  on  which 
they  stand,  they  are  peculiarly  exposed  to  the  aim  of 
every  artist  who  happens  to  be  possessed  by  the  craving 
for  scenical  effect.  But  there  is  another  class  of  assas- 
sinations, which  has  prevailed  from  an  early  period  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  that  really  does  surprise  me;  I 
mean  the  assassination  of  philosophers.  For,  gentlemen, 
it  is  a  fact  that  every  philosopher  of  eminence  for  the  two 


158  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

last  centuries  lias  either  been  murdered,  or,  at  the  least, 
been  very  near  it ;  insomuch,  that  if  a  man  calls  himself 
a  pliilosopher,  and  never  had  his  life  attempted,  rest 
assured  there  is  nothing  in  him;  and  against  Locke's 
philosophy  in  particular,  I  think  it  an  unanswerable  ob- 
jection (if  we  needed  any)  that,  although  he  carried  his 
throat  about  with  him  in  this  world  for  seventy-two  years, 
no  man  ever  condescended  to  cut  it.  As  these  cases 
of  philosophers  are  not  much  known,  and  are  generally 
good  and  well  composed  in  their  circumstances,  I  shall 
here  read  an  excursus  on  that  subject,  chiefly  by  way  of 
showing  my  own  learning. 

The  first  great  philosopher  of  the  seventeenth  century 
(if  we  except  Galileo)  was  Des  Cartes ;  and  if  ever  one 
could  say  of  a  man  that  he  was  all  but  murdered,  —  mur- 
dered within  an  inch,  —  one  must  say  it  of  him.  The 
case  was  this,  as  reported  by  Baillet  in  his  Vie  De  AT. 
Des  Cartes,  Tom.  I.  pp.  102  -  3.  In  the  year  1621,  when 
Des  Cartes  might  be  about  twenty-six  years  old,  he  was 
touring  about  as  usual  (for  he  was  as  restless  as  a  hy- 
ena), and,  coming  to  the  Elbe,  'either  at  Gluckstadt  or  at 
Hamburg,  he  took  shipping  for  East  Friezland :  what 
he  could  want  in  East  Eriezland,  no  man  has  ever  dis- 
covered ;  and  perhaps  he  took  this  into  consideration 
himself;  for,  on  reaching  Embden,  he  resolved  to  sail 
instantly  for  Vest  Friezland ;  and,  being  very  impatient 
of  delay,  he  hired  a  bark,  with  a  few  mariners  to  navigate 
it.  No  sooner  had  he  got  out  to  sea,  than  he  made  a 
pleasing  discovery,  namely,  that  he  had  shut  himself  up  in 
a  den  of  murderers.  His  crew,  says  M.  Baillet,  he  soon 
found  out  to  be  "  des  sc61erats,"  —  not  amateurs,  gentle- 


MURDER   AS   A   FINE   ART.  159 

men,  as  we  are,  but  professional  men, — the  height  of 
whose  ambition  at  that  moment  was  to  cut  his  throat. 
Bat  the  story  is  too  pleasing  to  be  abridged ;  I  shall  give 
it,  therefore,  accurately,  from  the  French  of  his  biogra- 
pher :  "  M.  Des  Cartes  had  no  company  but  that  of  his 
servant,  with  whom  he  was  conversing  in  French.  The 
sailors,  who  took  him  for  a  foreign  merchant,  rather  than 
a  cavalier,  concluded  that  he  must  have  money  about 
him.  Accordingly  they  came  to  a  resolution  by  no  means 
advantageous  to  his  purse.  There  is  this  difference, 
however,  between  sea-robbers  and  the  robbers  in  forests, 
that  the  latter  may,  without  hazard,  spare  the  lives  of 
their  victims ;  whereas  the  other  cannot  put  a  passenger 
on  shore  in  such  a  case  without  running  the  risk  of  being 
apprehended.  The  crew  of  M.  Des  Cartes  arranged  their 
measures  with  a  view  to  evade  any  danger  of  that  sort. 
They  observed  that  he  was  a  stranger  from  a  distance, 
without  acquaintance  in  the  country,  and  that  nobody 
would  take  any  trouble  to  inquire  about  him,  in  case  he 
should  never  come  to  hand,  quand  il  viendroit  a  man- 
quer"  Think,  gentlemen,  of  these  Friezland  dogs  dis- 
cussing a  philosopher  as  if  he  were  a  puncheon  of  rum. 
"  His  temper,  they  remarked,  was  very  mild  and  patient ; 
and,  judging  from  the  gentleness  of  his  deportment,  and 
the  courtesy  with  which  he  treated  themselves,  that  he 
could  be  nothing  more  than  some  green  young  man,  they 
concluded  that  they  should  have  all  the  easier  task  in 
disposing  of  his  life.  They  made  no  scruple  to  discuss 
the  whole  matter  in  his  presence,  as  not  supposing  that 
ne  understood  any  other  language  than  that  in  which  he 
conversed  with  his  servant ;  and  the  amount  of  their  de- 


160  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

liberation  was  —  to  murder  him,  then  to  throw  him  into 
the  sea,  and  to  divide  his  spoils." 

Excuse  my  laughing,"  gentlemen,  but  the  fact  is,  I  al- 
ways do  laugh  when  I  think  of  this  case,  —  two  things 
about  it  seem  so  droll.  One  is,  the  horrid  panic  or 
"  funk  "  (as  the  men  of  Eton  call  it)  in  which  Des  Cartes 
must  have  found  himself  upon  hearing  this  regular 
drama  sketched  for  his  own  death, — funeral,  —  succession 
and  administration  to  his  effects.  But  another  thing 
which  seems  to  me  still  more  funny  about  this  affair  is, 
that  if  these  Friezland  hounds  had  been  "game,"  we 
should  have  no  Cartesian  philosophy ;  and  how  we  could 
have  done  without  that,  considering  the  world  of  books 
it  has  produced,  I  leave  to  any  respectable  trunk-maker 
to  declare. 

However,  to  go  on ;  spite  of  his  enormous  funk,  Des 
Cartes  showed  fight,  and  by  that  means  awed  these  Anti- 
Cartesian  rascals,  "rinding,"  says  M.  Baillet,  "that 
the  matter  was  no  joke,  M.  Des  Cartes  leaped  upon  his 
feet  in  a  trice,  assumed  a  stern  countenance  that  these 
cravens  had  never  looked  for,  and,  addressing  them  in 
their  own  language,  threatened  to  run  them  through  on 
the  spot  if  they  dared  to  offer  him  any  insult."  Cer- 
tainly, gentlemen,  this  would  have  been  an  honor  far 
above  the  merits  of  such  inconsiderable  rascals,  —  to  be 
spitted  like  larks  upon  a  Cartesian  sword ;  and  therefore 
I  am  glad  M.  Des  Cartes  did  not  rob  the  gallows  by  exe- 
cuting his  threat,  especially  as  he  could  not  possibly  have 
brought  his  vessel  to  port,  after  he  had  murdered  his 
crew ;  so  that  he  must  have  continued  to  cruise  forever 
in  the  Zuyder  Zee,  and  would  probably  have  been  mis- 


MUEDER   AS   A    FINE   ART.  161 

taken  by  sailors  for  the  Flying  Dutchman,  homeward 
bound.  "  The  spirit  which  M.  Des  Cartes  manifested," 
says  his  biographer,  "  had  the  effect  of  magic  on  these 
wretches.  The  suddenness  of  their  consternation  struck 
their  minds  with  a  confusion  which  blinded  them  to  their 
advantage,  and  they  conveyed  him  to  his  destination  as 
peaceably  as  he  could  desire." 

Possibly,  gentlemen,  you  may  fancy  that,  on  the  model 
of  Csesar's  address  to  his  poor  ferryman,  — "  Ceesarem 
vehis  et  fortunas  ejus,"  —  M.  Des  Cartes  needed  only  to 
have  said,  "Dogs,  you  cannot  cut  my  throat,  for  you 
carry  Des  Cartes  and  his  philosophy,"  and  might  safely 
have  defied  them  to  do  their  worst.  A  German  emperor 
had  the  same  notion,  when,  being  cautioned  to  keep  out 
of  the  way  of  a  cannonading,  he  replied,  "Tut!  man. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  cannon-ball  that  killed  an  empe- 
ror ?  "  As  to  an  emperor  I  cannot  say,  but  a  less  thing 
has  sufficed  to  smash  a  philosopher ;  and  the  next  great 
philosopher  of  Europe  undoubtedly  was  murdered.  This 
was  Spinosa. 

I  know  very  well  the  common  'opinion  about  him  is, 
that  he  died  in  his  bed.  Perhaps  he  did,  but  he  was 
murdered,  for  all  that ;  and  this  I  shall  prove  by  a  book 
published  at  Brussels,  in  the  year  1731,  entitled  La  Via 
de  Spinosa  ;  Par  M.  Jean  Colerus,  with  many  additions, 
from  a  manuscript  life,  by  one  of  his  friends.  Spinosa 
died  on  the  21st  February,  1677,  being  then  little  more 
than  forty-four  years  old.  This,  of  itself,  looks  suspi- 
cious ;  and  M.  Jean  admits,  that  a  certain  expression  in 
the  manuscript  life  of  him  would  warrant  the  conclusion, 
"  que  sa  mort  n'a  pas  ete  tout-a-fait  naturelle."  Living 


162  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

in  a  damp  country,  and  a  sailor's  country,  like  Holland, 
he  may  be  thought  to  have  indulged  a  good  deal  in  grog, 
especially  in  punch,*  which  was  then  newly  discovered. 
Undoubtedly  he  might  have  done  so;  but  the  fact  is, 
that  he  did  not.  M.  Jean  calls  him,  "  extremement  sobre 
en  son  boire  et  en  son  manger."  And  though  some  wild 
stories  were  afloat  about  his  using  the  juice  of  mandra- 
gora  (p.  140),  and  opium  (p.  144),  yet  neither  of  these 
articles  appeared  in  his  druggist's  bill.  Living,  there- 
fore, with  such  sobriety,  how  was  it  possible  that  he 
should  die  a  natural  death  at  forty-four  P  Hear  his  biog- 
rapher's account:  "Sunday  morning,  the  21st  of  Feb- 
ruary, before  it  was  church  time,  Spinosa  came  down 
stairs  and  conversed  with  the  master  and  mistress  of  the 
house."  At  this  time,  therefore,  perhaps  ten  o'clock  on 
Sunday  morning,  you  see  that  Spinosa  was  alive  and 
pretty  well.  But  it  seems  "he  had  summoned  from  Am- 
sterdam a  certain  physician,  whom,"  says  the  biographer, 
"  I  shall  not  otherwise  point  out  to  notice  than  by  these 
two  letters,  L.  M.  This  L.  M.  had  directed  the  people 
of  the  house  to  purchase  an  ancient  cock,  and  to  have 
him  boiled  forthwith,  in  order  that  Spinosa  might  take 

*  "June  1,  1675.  —  Drinke  part  of  3  boules  of  punch  (a 
liquor  very  strainge  to  me),"  says  the  Rev.  Mr.  Henry  Teonge, 
in  his  Diary  lately  published.  In  a  note  on  this  passage,  a 
reference  is  made  to  Fryer's  Travels  to  the  East  Indies,  1672, 
who  speaks  of  "  that  enervating  liquor  called  Paunch  (which  is 
Indostan  for  five),  from  five  ingredients."  Made  thus,  it  seems 
the  medical  men  called  it  Diapente ;  if  with  four  only,  Diates- 
saron.  No  doubt,  it  was  its  evangelical  name  that  recommended 
it  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Teonge. 


MURDER   AS   A   FINE    ART.  163 

some  broth  about  noon,  which  in  fact  he  did,  and  ate 
some  of  the  old  cock  with  a  good  appetite,  after  the  land- 
lord and  his  wife  had  returned  from  church. 

"  In  the  afternoon  L.  M.  stayed  alone  with  Spinosa,  the 
people  of  the  house  having  returned  to  church ;  on  com- 
ing out  from  which  they  learnt,  with  much  surprise,  that 
Spinosa  had  died  about  three  o'clock,  in  the  presence  of 
L.  M.,  who  took  his  departure  for  Amsterdam  the  same 
evening,  by  the  night  boat,  without  paying  the  least  at- 
tention to  the  deceased.  No  doubt  he  was  the  readier 
to  dispense  with  these  duties,  as  he  had  possessed  him- 
self of  a  ducatoon  and  a  small  quantity  of  silver,  together 
with  a  silver-hafted  knife,  and  had  absconded  with  his 
pillage."  Here  you  see,  gentlemen,  the  murder  is  plain, 
and  the  manner  of  it.  It  was  L.  M.  who  murdered  Spi- 
nosa for  his  money.  Poor  S.  was  an  invalid,  meagre 
and  weak :  as  no  blood  was  observed,  L.  M.  no  doubt 
threw  him  down  and  smothered  him  with  pillows,  —  the 
poor  man  being  already  half  suffocated  by  his  infernal 
dinner.  But  who  was  L.  M.  ?  It  surely  never  could  be 
Lindley  Murray ;  for  I  saw  him  at  York  in  1825 ;  and 
besides,  I  do  not  think  he  would  do  such  a  thing;  at 
least,  not  to  a  brother  grammarian :  for  you  know,  gen- 
tlemen, that  Spinosa  wrote  a  very  respectable  Hebrew 
grammar. 

Hobbes,  but  why,  or  on  what  principle,  I  never  could 
understand,  was  not  murdered.  This  was  a  capital  over- 
sight of  the  professional  men  in  the  seventeenth  century ; 
because  in  every  light  he  was  a  fine  subject  for  murder, 
except,  indeed,  that  he  was  lean  and  skinny ;  for  I  can 
prove  that  he  had  money,  and  (what  is  very  funny)  he 


164  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

had  no  right  to  make  the  least  resistance ;  for,  according 
to  himself,  irresistible  power  creates  the  very  highest 
species  of  right,  so  that  it  is  rebellion  of  the  blackest  dye 
to  refuse  to  be  murdered,  when  a  competent  force  ap- 
pears to  murder  you.  However,  gentlemen,  though  he 
was  not  murdered,  I  am  happy  to  assure  you  that  (by  his 
own  account)  he  was  three  times  very  near  being  mur- 
dered. The  first  time  was  in  the  spring  of  1640,  when 
he  pretends  to  have  circulated  a  little  manuscript  on  the 
king's  behalf,  against  the  Parliament;  he  never  could 
produce  this  manuscript,  by  the  by :  but  he  says  that, 
"  Had  not  his  Majesty  dissolved  the  Parliament "  (in 
May),  "it  had  brought  him  into  danger  of  his  life." 
Dissolving  the  Parliament,  however,  was  of  no  use ;  for, 
in  November  of  the  same  year,  the  Long  Parliament  as- 
sembled, and  Hobbes,  a  second  time,  fearing  he  should 
be  murdered,  ran  away  to  France.  This  looks  like  the 
madness  of  John  Dennis,  who  thought  that  Louis  XIV. 
would  never  make  peace  with  Queen  Anne,  unless  he 
were  given  up  to  his  vengeance ;  and  actually  ran  away 
from  the  sea-coast  in  that  belief.  In  France,  Hobbes 
managed  to  take  care  of  his  throat  pretty  well  for  ten 
years;  but  at  the  end  of  that  time,  by  way  of  paying 
court  to  Cromwell,  he  published  his  Leviathan.  The  old 
coward  now  began  to  "  funk  "  horribly  for  the  third  time ; 
he  fancied  the  swords  of  the  cavaliers  were  constantly  at 
his  throat,  recollecting  how  they  had  served  the  Parlia- 
ment ambassadors  at  the  Hague  and  Madrid.  "  Turn," 
says  he,  in  his  dog-Latin  life  of  himself,  — 

"  Turn  venit  in  mentem  mihi  Dorislaus  et  Ascham ; 
Tanquam  proscripto  terror  ubique  aderat." 


MURDER   AS    A    FINE   ART.  105 

And  accordingly  he  ran  home  to  England.  Now,  cer- 
tainly, it  is  very  true  that  a  man  deserved  a  cudgelling 
for  writing  Leviathan ;  and  two  or  three  cudgellings  for 
writing  a  pentameter  ending  so  villanously  as,  "terror 
ubique  aderat "  !  But  no  man  ever  thought  him  worthy 
of  anything  beyond  cudgelling.  And,  in  fact,  the  whole 
story  is  a  bounce  of  his  own.  Tor,  in  a  most  abusive 
letter  which  he  wrote  "  to  a  learned  person  "  (meaning 
Wallis  the  mathematician),  he  gives  quite  another  ac- 
count of  the  matter,  and  says  (p.  8),  he  ran  home  "  be- 
cause he  would  not  trust  his  safety  with  the  Trench 
clergy  "  ;  insinuating  that  he  was  likely  to  be  murdered 
for  his  religion,  which  would  have  been  a  high  joke  in- 
deed, —  Tom's  being  brought  to  the  stake  for  religion. 

Bounce  or  not  bounce,  however,  certain  it  is,  that 
Hobbes,  to  the  end  of  his  life,  feared  that  somebody 
would  murder  him.  This  is  proved  by  the  story  I  am 
going  to  tell  you :  it  is  not  from  a  manuscript,  but  (as 
Mr.  Coleridge  says)  it  is  as  good  as  manuscript ;  for  it 
comes  from  a  book  now  entirely  forgotten,  namely,  "  The 
Creed  of  Mr.  Hobbes  Examined ;  in  a  Conference  be- 
tween him  and  a  Student  in  Divinity  "  (published  about 
ten  years  before  Hobbes's  death).  The  book  is  anony- 
mous, but  it  was  written  by  Tennison,  the  same  who, 
about  thirty  years  after,  succeeded  Tillotson  as  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury.  The  introductory  anecdote  is  as 
follows :  "  A  certain  divine,  it  seems  (no  doubt  Tennison 
himself),  took  an  annual  tour  of  one  month  to  different 
parts  of  the  island.  In  one  of  these  excursions  (1670) 
he  visited  the  Peak  in  Derbyshire,  partly  in  consequence 
of  Hobbes's  description  of  it.  Being  in  that  neighbor- 


166  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

hood,  he  could  not  but  pay  a  visit  to  Buxton ;  and  at  the 
very  moment  of  his  arrival,  he  was  fortunate  enough  to 
find  a  party  of  gentlemen  dismounting  at  the  inn  door, 
amongst  whom  was  a  long,  thin  fellow,  who  turned  out 
to  be  no  less  a  person  than  Mr.  Hobbes,  who  probably 
had  ridden  over  from  Chatsworth.  Meeting  so  great  a 
lion,  a  tourist,  in  search  of  the  picturesque,  could  do  no 
less  than  present  himself  in  the  character  of  bore.  And 
luckily  for  this  scheme,  two  of  Mr.  Hobbes's  companions 
were  suddenly  summoned  away  by  express ;  so  that,  for 
the  rest  of  his  stay  at  Buxton,  he  had  Leviathan  entirely 
to  himself,  and  had  the  honor  of  bowsing  with  him  in  the 
evening.  Hobbes,  it  seems,  at  first  showed  a  good  deal 
of  stiffness,  for  he  was  shy  of  divines  ;  but  this  wore  off, 
and  he  became  very  sociable  and  funny,  and  they  agreed 
to  go  into  the  bath  together.  How  Tennison  could  ven- 
ture to  gambol  in  the  same  water  with  Leviathan,  I  can- 
not explain ;  but  so  it  was :  they  frolicked  about  like 
two  dolphins,  though  Hobbes  must  have  been  as  old  as 
the  hills ;  and  in  those  intervals  wherein  they  abstained 
from  swimming  and  plunging  themselves"  (i.  e.  diving) 
"  they  discoursed  of  many  things  relating  to  the  Baths  of 
the  Ancients,  and  the  Origine  of  Springs.  When  they 
had  in  this  manner  passed  away  an  hour,  they  stepped 
out  of  the  bath ;  and,  having  dried  and  cloathed  them- 
selves, they  sate  down  in  expectation  of  such  a  supper  as 
the  place  afforded ;  designing  to  refresh  themselves  like 
the  Deipnosophilce,  and  rather  to  reason  than  to  drink 
profoundly.  But  in  this  innocent  intention  they  were 
interrupted  by  the  disturbance  arising  from  a  little  quar- 
rel, in  which  some  of  the  ruder  people  in  the  house  were 


MURDER   AS   A   FINE   ART.  167 

for  a  short  time  engaged.  At  this  Mr.  Hobbes  seemed 
much  concerned,  though  he  was  at  some  distance  from 
the  persons."  And  why  was  he  concerned,  gentlemen  ? 
No  doubt  you  fancy,  from  some  benign  and  disinterested 
love  of  peace  and  harmony,  worthy  of  an  old  man  and 
a  philosopher.  But  listen,  —  "  For  a  while  he  was  not 
composed,  but  related  it  once  or  twice  as  to  himself,  with 
a  low  and  careful  tone,  how  Sextus  Roscius  was  murthered 
after  supper  by  the  Balnese  Palatiuse.  Of  such  gen- 
eral extent  is  that  remark  of  Cicero,  in  relation  to  Epi- 
curus the  Atheist,  of  whom  he  observed  that  he  of  all 
men  dreaded  most  those  things  which  he  contemned,  — 
Death  and  the  Gods."  Merely  because  it  was  supper-time, 
and  in  the  neighborhood  of  a  bath,  Mr.  Hobbes  must 
have  the  fate  of  Sextus  Roscius.  What  logic  was  there 
in  this,  unless  to  a  man  who  was  always  dreaming  of 
murder  ?  Here  was  Leviathan,  no  longer  afraid  of  the 
daggers  of  English  cavaliers  or  French  clergy,  but 
"  frightened  from  his  propriety  "  by  a  row  in  an  alehouse 
between  some  honest  clodhoppers  of  Derbyshire,  whom 
his  own  gaunt  scarecrow  of  a  person,  that  belonged  to 
quite  another  century,  would  have  frightened  out  of 
their  wits. 

Malebranche,  it  will  give  you  pleasure  to  hear,  was 
murdered.  The  man  who  murdered  him  is  well  known  ; 
it  was  Bishop  Berkeley.  The  story  is  familiar,  though 
hitherto  not  put  in  a  proper  light.  Berkeley,  when  a 
young  man,  went  to  Paris  and  called  on  Pere  Male- 
brauche.  He  found  him  in  his  cell  cooking.  Cooks 
have  ever  been  a  genus  irritabile  ;  authors  still  more  so ; 
Malebranche  was  both ;  a  dispute  arose ;  the  old  father, 


168  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

warm  already,  became  warmer ;  culinary  and  metaphysi- 
cal irritations  united  to  derange  his  liver :  he  took  to  his 
bed,  and  died.  Such  is  the  common  version  of  the  story  : 
"  So  the  whole  ear  of  Denmark  is  abused."  The  fact  is, 
that  the  matter  was  hushed  up,  out  of  consideration  for 
Berkeley,  who  (as  Pope  remarked)  had  "  every  virtue 
under  heaven  "  :  else  it  was  well  known  that  Berkeley, 
feeling  himself  nettled  by  the  waspishness  of  the  old 
Frenchman,  squared  at  him;  a  turn-up  was  the  conse- 
quence ;  Malebranche  was  floored  in  the  first  round  ;  the 
conceit  was  wholly  taken  out  of  him  ;  and  he  would  per- 
haps have  given  in ;  but  Berkeley's  blood  was  now  up, 
and  he  insisted  on  the  old  Frenchman's  retracting  his 
doctrine  of  Occasional  Causes.  The  vanity  of  the  man 
was  too  great  for  this  ;  and  he  fell  a  sacrifice  to  the  im- 
petuosity of  Irish  youth,  combined  with  his  own  absurd 
obstinacy. 

Leibnitz  being  every  way  superior  to  Malebranche, 
one  might,  a  fortiori,  have  counted  on  his  being  mur- 
dered ;  which,  however,  was  not  the  case.  I  believe  he 
was  nettled  at  this  neglect,  and  felt  himself  insulted  by 
the  security  in  which  he  passed  his  days.  In  no  other 
way  can  I  explain  his  conduct  at  the  latter  end  of  his 
life,  when  he  chose  to  grow  very  avaricious,  and  to  hoard 
up  large  sums  of  gold,  which  he  kept  in  his  own  house. 
This  was  at  Vienna,  where  he  died ;  and  letters  are  still 
in  existence,  describing  the  immeasurable  anxiety  which 
he  entertained  for  his  throat.  Still  his  ambition,  for  be- 
ing attempted  at  least,  was  so  great,  that  he  would  not 
forego  the  danger.  A  late  English  pedagogue,  of  Bir- 
mingham manufacture,  namely,  Dr.  Parr,  took  a  more 


MURDER   AS    A    FINE   ART.  169 

selfish  course,  under  the  same  circumstances.  He  had 
amassed  a  considerable  quantity  of  gold  and  silver  plate, 
which  was  for  some  time  deposited  in  his  bedroom  at  his 
parsonage  house,  Hatton.  But  growing  every  day  more 
afraid  of  being  murdered,  which  he  knew  that  he  could 
not  stand,  and  to  which,  indeed,  he  never  had  the  slight- 
est pretension,  he  transferred  the  whole  to  the  Hatton 
blacksmith ;  conceiving,  no  doubt,  that  the  murder  of  a 
blacksmith  would  fall  more  lightly  on  the  salus  reipublica 
than  that  of  a  pedagogue.  But  I  have  heard  this  greatly 
disputed ;  and  it  seems  now  generally  agreed  that  one 
good  horseshoe  is  worth  about  two  and  one  fourth  Spital 
sermons. 

As  Leibnitz,  though  not  murdered,  may  be  said  to  have 
died,  partly  of  the  fear  that  he  should  be  murdered,  and 
partly  of  vexation  that  he  was  not,  —  Kant,  on  the  other 
hand,  who  had  no  ambition  in  that  way,  had  a  narrower 
escape  from  a  murderer  than  any  man  we  read  of,  except 
Des  Cartes.  So  absurdly  does  Fortune  throw  about  her 
favors  !  The  case  is  told,  I  think,  in  an  anonymous  life 
of  this  very  great  man.  For  health's  sake,  Kant  imposed 
upon  himself,  at  one  time,  a  walk  of  six  miles  every  day 
along  a  high-road.  This  fact  becoming  known  to  a  man 
who  had  his  private  reasons  for  committing  murder,  at 
the  third  milestone  from  Konigsberg,  he  waited  for  his 
"  intended,"  who  came  up  to  time  as  duly  as  a  mail- 
coach. 

But  for  an  accident,  Kant  was  a  dead  man.  However, 
on  considerations  of  "  morality,"  it  happened  that  the 
murderer  preferred  a  little  child,  whom  he  saw  playing  in 
the  road,  to  the  old  transcendentalist :  this  child  he  mur- 


170  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

dered ;  and  thus  it  happened  that  Kant  escaped.  Such 
is  the  German  account  of  the  matter ;  but  my  opinion  is, 
that  the  murderer  was  an  amateur,  who  felt  how  little 
would  be  gained  to  the  cause  of  good  taste  by  murder- 
ing an  old,  arid,  and  adust  metaphysician ;  there  was  no 
room  for  display,  as  the  man  could  not  possibly  look  more 
like  a  mummy  when  dead  than  he  had  done  alive. 


Thus,  gentlemen,  I  have  traced  the  connection  between 
philosophy  and  our  art,  until  insensibly  I  find  that  I  have 
wandered  into  our  own  era.  This  I  shall  not  take  any 
pains  to  characterize  apart  from  that  which  preceded  it, 
for,  in  fact,  they  have  no  distinct  character.  The  seven- 
teenth and  eighteenth  centuries,  together  with  so  much 
of  the  nineteenth  as  we  have  yet  seen,  jointly  compose 
the  Augustan  age  of  murder.  The  finest  work  of  the 
seventeenth  century  is,  unquestionably,  the  murder  of 
Sir  Edmondbury  Godfrey,  which  has  my  entire  approba- 
tion. At  the  same  time,  it  must  be  observed  that  the 
quantity  of  murder  was  not  great  in  this  century,  at 
least  amongst  our  own  artists ;  which,  perhaps,  is  attrib- 
utable to  the  want  of  enlightened  patronage.  Sint  Mee- 
cenates,  non  deerunt,  Flacce,  Marones.  Consulting  Grant's 
"  Observations  on  the  Bills  of  Mortality  "  (4th  edition, 
Oxford,  1665),  I  find  that,  out  of  229,250,  who  died  in 
London  during  one  period  of  twenty  years,  in  the  seven- 
teenth century,  not  more  than  eighty-six  were  murdered ; 
that  is,  about  four  and  three  tenths  per  annum.  A  small 
uumber  this,  gentlemen,  to  found  an  academy  upon ;  and 


MURDER   AS    A   FINE   ART.  171 

certainly,  -where  the  quantity  is  so  small,  we  have  a  right 
to  expect  that  the  quality  should  be  first-rate.  Perhaps 
it  was ;  yet  still  I  am  of  opinion  that  the  best  artist  in 
this  century  was  not  equal  to  the  best  in  that  which  fol- 
lowed. Tor  instance,  however  praiseworthy  the  case  of 
Sir  Edmondbury  Godfrey  may  be  (and  nobody  can  be 
more  sensible  of  its  merits  than  I  am),  still,  I  cannot 
consent  to  place  it  on  a  level  with  that  of  Mrs.  Ruscombe 
of  Bristol,  either  as  to  originality  of  design,  or  boldness 
and  breadth  of  style.  This  good  lady's  murder  took  place 
early  in  the  reign  of  George  III.,  a  reign  which  was 
notoriously  favorable  to  the  arts  generally.  She  lived  in 
College  Green,  with  a  single  maid-servant,  neither  of 
them  having  any  pretension  to  the  notice  of  history  but 
what  they  derived  from  the  great  artist  whose  workman- 
ship I  am  recording.  One  fine  morning,  when  all  Bristol 
was  alive  and  in  motion,  some  suspicion  arising,  the 
neighbors  forced  an  entrance  into  the  house,  and  found 
Mrs.  Ruscombe  murdered  in  her  bedroom,  and  the  ser- 
vant murdered  on  the  stairs  :  this  was  at  noon  ;  and,  not 
more  than  two  hours  before,  both  mistress  and  servant 
had  been  seen  alive.  To  the  best  of  my  remembrance, 
tlu's  was  in  1764  ;  upwards  of  sixty  years,  therefore,  have 
now  elapsed,  and  yet  the  artist  is  still  undiscovered. 
The  suspicions  of  posterity  have  settled  upon  two  pre- 
tenders, —  a  baker  and  a  chimney-sweeper.  But  poster- 
ity is  wrong  ;  no  unpractised  artist  could  have  conceived 
so  bold  an  idea  as  that  of  a  noonday  murder  in  the  heart 
of  a  great  city.  It  was  no  obscure  baker,  gentlemen,  or 
anonymous  chimney-sweeper,  be  assured,  that  executed  this 
work.  I  know  who  it  was.  (Here  there  was  a  general 


172  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

buzz,  which  at  length  broke  out  into  open  applause  ;  upon 
which  the  lecturer  blushed,  and  went  on  with  much  earnest- 
ness.) For  Heaven's  sake,  gentlemen,  do  not  mistake  me ; 
it  was  not  I  that  did  it.  I  have  not  the  vanity  to  think 
myself  equal  to  any  such  achievement ;  be  assured  that 
you  greatly  overrate  my  poor  talents ;  Mrs.  Ruscombe's 
aflair  was  far  beyond  my  slender  abilities.  But  I  came 
to  know  who  the  artist  was,  from  a  celebrated  surgeon, 
who  assisted  at  his  dissection.  This  gentleman  had  a 
private  museum  in  the  way  of  his  profession,  one  corner 
of  which  was  occupied  by  a  cast  from  a  man  of  remark- 
ably fine  proportions. 

"  That,"  said  the  surgeon,  "  is  a  cast  from  the  celebrat- 
ed Lancashire  highwayman,  who  concealed  his  profession 
for  some  time  from  his  neighbors,  by  drawing  woollen 
stockings  over  his  horse's  legs,  and  in  that  way  muffing 
the  clatter  which  he  must  else  have  made  in  riding  up  a 
flagged  alley  that  led  to  his  stable.  At  the  time  of  his 
execution  for  highway  robbery,  I  was  studying  under 
Cruickshank ;  and  the  man's  figure  was  so  uncommonly 
fine,  that  no  money  or  exertion  was  spared  to  get  into 
possession  of  him  with  the  least  possible  delay.  By  the 
connivance  of  the  under-sheruT,  he  was  cut  down  within 
the  legal  time,  and  instantly  put  into  a  chaise  and  four ; 
so  that,  when  he  reached  Cruickshank's  he  was  positively 

not  dead.    Mr. ,  a  young  student  at  that  time,  had 

the  honor  of  giving  him  the  coup  de  grace,  and  finishing 
the  sentence  of  the  law."  This  remarkable  anecdote, 
which  seemed  to  imply  that  all  the  gentlemen  in  the  dis- 
secting-room were  amateurs  of  our  class,  struck  me  a 
good  deal ;  and  I  was  repeating  it  one  day  to  a  Lanca- 


MURDER   AS    A    FINE   ART.  173 

shire  lady,  who  thereupon  informed  me  that  she  had  her- 
self lived  in  the  neighborhood  of  that  highwayman,  and 
well  remembered  two  circumstances,  which  combined,  in 
the  opinion  of  all  his  neighbors,  to  fix  upon  him  the 
credit  of  Mrs.  Ruscombe's  affair.  One  was,  the  fact  of 
his  absence  for  a  whole  fortnight  at  the  period  of  that 
murder ;  the  other  that,  within  a  very  little  time  after,  the 
neighborhood  of  this  highwayman  was  deluged  with  dol- 
lars :  now  Mrs.  Ruscombe  was  known  to  have  hoarded 
about  two  thousand  of  that  coin.  Be  the  artist,  however, 
who  he  might,  the  affair  remains  a  durable  monument  of 
his  genius ;  for  such  was  the  impression  of  awe,  and  the 
sense  of  power  left  behind,  by  the  strength  of  conception 
manifested  in  this  murder,  that  no  tenant  (as  I  was  told 
in  1810)  had  been  found  up  to  that  time  for  Mrs.  Rus- 
combe's house. 

But,  whilst  I  thus  eulogize  the  Ruscombian  case,  let 
me  not  be  supposed  to  overlook  the  many  other  specimens 
of  extraordinary  merit  spread  over  the  face  of  this  cen- 
tury. Such  cases,  indeed,  as  that  of  Miss  Bland,  or  of 
Captain  Donnellan,  and  Sir  Theophilus  Boughton,  shall 
never  have  any  countenance  from  me.  Fie  on  these 
dealers  in  poison,  say  I ;  can  they  not  keep  to  the  old 
honest  way  of  cutting  throats,  without  introducing  such 
abominable  innovations  from  Italy  ?  I  consider  all  these 
poisoning  cases,  compared  with  the  legitimate  style,  as  no 
better  than  waxwork  by  the  side  of  sculpture,  or  a  litho- 
graphic print  by  the  side  of  a  fine  Volpato.  But,  dis- 
missing these,  there  remain  many  excellent  works  of  art 
in  a  pure  style,  such  as  nobody  need  be  ashamed  to  own, 
as  every  candid  connoisseur  will  admit.  Candid,  observe, 


174  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

I  say  ;  for  great  allowances  must  be  made  in  these  cases ; 
no  artist  can  ever  be  sure  of  carrying  through  his  own 
fine  preconception.  Awkward  disturbances  will  arise: 
people  will  not  submit  to  have  their  throats  cut  quietly ; 
they  will  run,  they  will  kick,  they  will  bite ;  and  whilst 
the  portrait-painter  often  has  to  complain  of  too  much 
torpor  in  his  subject,  the  artist  in  our  line  is  generally 
embarrassed  by  too  much  animation.  At  the  same  time, 
however  disagreeable  to  the  artist,  this  tendency  in  mur- 
der to  excite  and  irritate  the  subject  is  certainly  one  of 
its  advantages  to  the  world  in  general,  which  we  ought 
not  to  overlook,  since  it  favors  the  development  of  latent 
talent.  Jeremy  Taylor  notices,  with  admiration,  the  ex- 
traordinary leaps  which  people  will  take  under  the  in- 
fluence of  fear.  There  was  a  striking  instance  of  this  in 
the  recent  case  of  the  M'Keands;  the  boy  cleared  a 
height  such  as  he  will  never  clear  again  to  his  dying  day. 
Talents  also  of  the  most  brilliant  description  for  thumping, 
and  indeed  for  all  the  gymnastic  exercises,  have  some- 
times been  developed  by  the  panic  which  accompanies 
our  artists ;  talents  else  buried  and  hid  under  a  bushel  to 
the  possessors,  as  much  as  to  their  friends.  I  remember 
an  interesting  illustration  of  this  fact,  in  a  case  which  I 
learned  in  Germany. 

Riding  one  day  in  the  neighborhood  of  Munich,  I  over- 
took a  distinguished  amateur  of  our  society,  whose  name 
I  shall  conceal.  This  gentleman  informed  me  that,  find- 
ing himself  wearied  with  the  frigid  pleasures  (so  he  called 
them)  of  mere  amateurship,  he  had  quitted  England  for 
the  continent,  —  meaning  to  practise  a  little  profession- 
ally. For  this  purpose  he  resorted  to  Germany,  conceiv- 


MURDER   AS   A    FIXE    ART.  175 

ing  the  police  in  that  part  of  Europe  to  be  more  heavy 
and  drowsy  than  elsewhere.  His  debut,  as  a  practitioner, 
took  place  at  Mannheim;  and,  knowing  me  to  be  a 
brother  amateur,  he  freely  communicated  the  whole  of 
his  maiden  adventure.  "  Opposite  to  my  lodging,"  said 
he,  "lived  a  baker:  he  was  somewhat  of  a  miser,  and 
lived  quite  alone.  Whether  it  were  his  great  expanse  of 
chalky  face,  or  what  else,  I  know  not,  but  the  fact  was, 
I  '  fancied '  him,  and  resolved  to  commence  business  upon 
his  throat,  which,  by  the  way,  he  always  carried  bare,  — 
a  fashion  which  is  very  irritating  to  my  desires.  Pre- 
cisely at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  I  observed  that  he 
regularly  shut  up  his  windows.  One  night  I  watched 
him  when  thus  engaged,  —  bolted  in  after  him,  —  locked 
the  door,  —  and,  addressing  him  with  great  suavity,  ac- 
quainted him  with  the  nature  of  my  errand ;  at  the  same 
time  advising  him  to  make  no  resistance,  which  would  be 
mutually  unpleasant.  So  saying,  I  drew  out  my  tools, 
and  was  proceeding  to  operate.  But  at  this  spectacle, 
the  baker,  who  seemed  to  have  been  struck  by  catalepsy 
at  my  first  announce,  awoke  into  tremendous  agitation. 
'  I  will  not  be  murdered ! '  he  shrieked  aloud ;  '  what 
for  will  I  lose  my  precious  throat  ? '  '  What  for  ?  '  said 
I ;  '  if  for  no  other  reason,  for  this,  —  that  you  put  alum 
into  your  bread.  But  no  matter,  alum  or  no  alum  (for 
I  was  resolved  to  forestall  any  argument  on  that  point), 
know  that  I  am  a  virtuoso  in  the  art  of  murder,  am  de- 
sirous of  improving  myself  in  its  details,  and  am  enam- 
ored of  your  vast  surface  of  throat,  to  which  I  am  deter- 
mined to  be  a  customer.'  '  Is  it  so  ? '  said  he,  '  but  I  '11 
find  you  a  customer  in  another  line.'  And  so  saying,  he 


176  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

threw  himself  into  a  boxing  attitude.  The  very  idea  of 
his  boxing  struck  me  as  ludicrous.  It  is  true,  a  London 
baker  had  distinguished  himself  in  the  ring,  and  became 
known  to  fame  under  the  title  of  the  Master  of  the  Rolls ; 
but  he  was  young  and  unspoiled ;  whereas,  this  man  was 
a  monstrous  feather-bed  in  person,  fifty  years  old,  and 
totally  out  of  condition.  Spite  of  all  this,  however,  and 
contending  against  me,  who  am  a  master  in  the  art,  he 
made  so  desperate  a  defence  that  many  times  I  feared  he 
might  turn  the  tables  upon  me  ;  and  that  I,  an  amateur, 
might  be  murdered  by  a  rascally  baker.  What  a  situa- 
tion !  Minds  of  sensibility  will  sympathize  with  my  anx- 
iety. How  severe  it  was,  you  may  understand  by  this, 
that  for  the  first  thirteen  rounds  the  baker  had  the  ad- 
vantage. Round  the  fourteenth,  I  received  a  blow  on 
the  right  eye,  which  closed  it  up ;  in  the  end,  I  believe, 
this  was  my  salvation ;  for  the  anger  it  roused  in  me  was 
so  great  that,  in  this  and  every  one  of  the  three  following 
rounds,  I  floored  the  baker. 

"Round  18th.  The  baker  came  up  piping,  and  man- 
ifestly the  worse  for  wear.  His  geometrical  exploits  in 
the  four  last  rounds  had  done  him  no  good.  However, 
he  showed  some  skill  in  stopping  a  message  which  I  was 
sending  to  his  cadaverous  mug :  in  delivering  which,  my 
foot  slipped,  and  I  went  down. 

"  Round  19th.  Surveying  the  baker,  I  became  ashamed 
of  having  been  so  much  bothered  by  a  shapeless  mass  of 
dough;  and  I  went  in  fiercely,  and  administered  some 
severe  punishment.  A  rally  took  place,  —  both  went 
down,  —  baker  undermost,  —  ten  to  three  on  ama- 
teur. 


MURDER   AS    A    FINE    ART.  177 

"  Round  20th.  The  baker  jumped  up  with  surprising 
agility :  indeed,  he  managed  his  pins  capitally,  and  fought 
wonderfully,  considering  that  he  was  drenched  in  perspi- 
ration ;  but  the  shine  was  now  taken  out  of  him,  and  his 
game  was  the  mere  effect  of  panic.  It  was  now  clear 
that  he  could  not  last  much  longer.  In  the  course  of 
this  round  we  tried  the  weaving  system,  in  which  I  had 
greatly  the  advantage,  and  hit  him  repeatedly  on  the 
conk.  My  reason  for  this  was,  that  his  conk  was  covered 
with  carbuncles ;  and  I  thought  I  should  vex  him  by 
taking  such  liberties  with  his  conk,  which  in  fact  I 
did. 

"  The  three  next  rounds,  the  master  of  the  rolls  stag- 
gered about  like  a  cow  on  the  ice.  Seeing  how  matters 
stood,  in  round  twenty-fourth  I  whispered  something 
into  his  ear,  which  sent  him  down  like  a  shot.  It  was 
nothing  more  than  my  private  opinion  of  the  value  of  his 
throat  at  an  annuity  office.  This  little  confidential  whis- 
per affected  him  greatly  ;  the  very  perspiration  was  fro- 
een  on  his  face,  and  for  the  next  two  rounds  I  had  it  all 
tny  own  way.  And  when  I  called  time  for  the  twenty- 
eeventh  round,  he  lay  like  a  log  on  the  floor." 

"  After  which,"  said  I  to  the  amateur,  "  it  may  be  pre- 
sumed that  you  accomplished  your  purpose."  "  You  are 
right,"  said  he,  mildly,  "  I  did ;  and  a  great  satisfaction, 
you  know,  it  was  to  my  mind,  for  by  this  means  I  killed 
two  birds  with  one  stone  " ;  meaning  that  he  had  both 
thumped  the  baker  and  murdered  him.  Now,  for  the 
life  of  me,  I  could  not  see  that;  for,  on  the  contrary,  to 
my  mind  it  appeared  that  he  had  taken  two  stones  to  kill 
one  bird,  having  been  obliged  to  take  the  conceit  out  of 
8*  t 


178  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

him  first  with  his  fist,  and  then  with  his  tools.  But 
no  matter  for  his  logic.  The  moral  of  liis  story  was 
good,  for  it  showed  what  an  astonishing  stimulus  to 
latent  talent  is  contained  in  any  reasonable  prospect 
of  being  murdered.  A  pursy,  unwieldy,  half-cataleptic 
baker  of  Mannheim  had  absolutely  fought  six-and-twen- 
ty  rounds  with  an  accomplished  English  boxer  merely 
upon  this  inspiration ;  so  greatly  was  natural  genius 
exalted  and  sublimed  by  the  genial  presence  of  his  mur- 
derer. 

Really,  gentlemen,  when  one  hears  of  such  things  as 
these,  it  becomes  a  duty,  perhaps,  a  little  to  soften  that 
extreme  asperity  with  which  most  men  speak  of  murder. 
To  hear  people  talk,  you  would  suppose  that  all  the  dis- 
advantages and  inconveniences  were  on  the  side  of  being 
murdered,  and  that  there  were  none  at  all  in  not  being 
murdered.  But  considerate  men  think  otherwise.  "Cer- 
tainly," says  Jeremy  Taylor,  "  it  is  a  less  temporal  evil  to 
fall  by  the  rudeness  of  a  sword  than  the  violence  of  a 
fever ;  and  the  axe  "  (to  which  he  might  have  added  the 
ship-carpenter's  mallet  and  the  crow-bar)  "is  a  much 
less  affliction  than  a  strangury."  Very  true ;  the  bishop 
talks  like  a  wise  man  and  an  amateur,  as  he  is;  and 
another  great  philosopher,  Marcus  Aurelius,  was  equally 
above  the  vulgar  prejudices  on  this  subject.  He  declares 
it  to  be  one  of  "  the  noblest  functions  of  reason  to  know 
whether  it  is  time  to  walk  out  of  the  world  or  not." 
(Book  III.,  Collers's  Translation.)  No  sort  of  knowledge 
being  rarer  than  this,  surely  that  man  must  be  a  most 
philanthropic  character,  who  undertakes  to  instruct  peo- 
ple in  this  branch  of  knowledge  gratis,  and  at  no  little 


MURDER   AS   A   FINE    ART.  179 

hazard  to  himself.  All  this,  however,  I  throw  out  only 
in  the  way  of  speculation  to  future  moralists ;  declaring 
in  the  mean  time  my  own  private  conviction,  that  very 
few  men  commit  murder  upon  philanthropic  or  patriotic 
principles,  and  repeating  what  I  have  already  said  once 
at  least,  —  that,  as  to  the  majority  of  murderers,  they 
are  very  incorrect  characters. 

With  respect  to  Williams's  murders,  the  sublimest  and 
most  entire  in  their  excellence  that  ever  were  committed, 
I  shall  not  allow  myself  to  speak  incidentally.  Nothing 
less  than  an  entire  lecture,  or  even  an  entire  course  of 
lectures,  would  suffice  to  expound  their  merits.  But  one 
curious  fact,  connected  with  his  case,  I  shall  mention, 
because  it  seems  to  imply  that  the  blaze  of  his  genius 
absolutely  dazzled  the  eye  of  criminal  justice.  You  all 
remember,  I  doubt  not,  that  the  instruments  with  which 
he  executed  his  first  great  work  (the  murder  of  the 
Marrs)  were  a  ship  -  carpenter's  mallet  and  a  knife. 
Now,  the  mallet  belonged  to  an  old  Swede,  one  John 
Peterson,  and  bore  his  initials.  This  instrument  Wil- 
liams left  behind  him,  in  Marr's  house,  and  it  fell  into 
the  hands  of  the  magistrates.  Now,  gentlemen,  it  is  a 
fact  that  the  publication  of  this  circumstance  of  the  in- 
itials led  immediately  to  the  apprehension  of  Williams, 
and,  if  made  earlier,  would  have  prevented  his  second 
great  work,  the  murder  of  the  Williamsons,  which  took 
place  precisely  twelve  days  after.  But  the  magistrates 
kept  back  this  fact  from  the  public  for  the  entire  twelve 
days,  and  until  that  second  work  was  accomplished. 
That  finished,  they  published  it,  apparently  feeling  that 
Williams  had  now  done  enough  for  his  fame,  and  that 


180  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

his  glory  was  at  length  placed  beyond  the  reach  of  acci- 
dent. 

As  to  Mr.  ThurtelTs  case,  I  know  not  what  to  say. 
Naturally,  I  have  every  disposition  to  think  highly  of 
my  predecessor  in  the  chair  of  this  society;  and  I  ac- 
knowledge that  his  lectures  were  unexceptionable.  But, 
speaking  ingenuously,  I  do  really  think  that  his  principal 
performance,  as  an  artist,  has  been  much  overrated.  I 
admit  that  at  first  I  was  myself  carried  away  by  the  gen- 
eral enthusiasm.  On  the  morning  when  the  murder  was 
made  known  in  London,  there  was  the  fullest  meeting  of 
amateurs  that  I  have  ever  known  since  the  days  of  Wil- 
liams ;  old  bedridden  connoisseurs,  who  had  got  into  a 
peevish  way  of  sneering  and  complaining  "  that  there 
was  nothing  doing,"  now  hobbled  down  to  our  club- 
room  :  such  hilarity,  such  benign  expression  of  general 
satisfaction,  I  have  rarely  witnessed.  On  every  side  you 
saw  people  shaking  hands,  congratulating  each  other,  and 
forming  dinner-parties  for  the  evening ;  and  nothing  was 
to  be  heard  but  triumphant  challenges  of,  "  Well !  will 
this  do  P  "  "  Is  this  the  right  thing  ?  "  "  Are  you  sat- 
isfied at  last  ?  "  But,  in  the  midst  of  this,  I  remember 
we  all  grew  silent  on  hearing  the  old  cynical  amateur, 

L.  S ,  that  laudator  temporis  acti,  stumping  along 

with  his  wooden  leg ;  he  entered  the  room  with  his  usual 
scowl,  and,  as  he  advanced,  he  continued  to  growl  and 
stutter  the  whole  way.  "  Not  an  original  idea  in  the 
whole  piece,  —  mere  plagiarism,  — base  plagiarism  from 
hints  that  I  threw  out !  Besides,  his  style  is  as  hard  as 
Albert  Durer,  and  as  coarse  as  Fuseli."  Many  thought 
that  this  was  mere  jealousy  and  general  waspishness ;  but 


MURDER   AS   A   FINE   ART.  181 

I  confess  that  when  the  first  glow  of  enthusiasm  had  sub- 
sided, I  have  found  most  judicious  critics  to  agree  that 
there  was  something  falsetto  in  the  style  of  ThurtelL 
The  fact  is,  he  was  a  member  of  our  society,  which  nat- 
urally gave  a  friendly  bias  to  our  judgments;  and  his 
person  was  universally  familiar  to  the  cockneys,  which 
gave  him,  with  the  whole  London  public,  a  temporary 
popularity,  that  his  pretensions  are  not  capable  of  sup- 
porting ;  for  opinionum  commenta,  dekt  dies,  naturae  judi- 
cia  confirmat.  There  was,  however,  an  unfinished  design 
of  ThurtelTs  for  the  murder  of  a  man  with  a  pair  of  dumb- 
bells, which  I  admired  greatly ;  it  was  a  mere  outline, 
that  he  never  completed;  but  to  my  mind  it  seemed 
every  way  superior  to  his  chief  work.  I  remember  that 
there  was  great  regret  expressed  by  some  amateurs  that 
this  sketch  should  have  been  left  in  an  unfinished  state : 
but  there  I  cannot  agree  with  them ;  for  the  fragments 
and  first  bold  outlines  of  original  artists  have  often  a 
felicity  about  them  which  is  apt  to  vanish  in  the  manage- 
ment of  the  details. 

The  case  of  the  M'Keands  I  consider  far  beyond  the 
vaunted  performance  of  Thurtell,  —  indeed,  above  all 
praise;  and  bearing  that  relation,  in  fact,  to  the  im- 
mortal works  of  Williams  which  the  JDneid  bears  to 
the  Iliad. 

But  it  is  now  time  that  I  should  say  a  few  words 
about  the  principles  of  murder,  not  with  a  view  to  regu- 
late your  practice,  but  your  judgment :  as  to  old  women, 
and  the  mob  of  newspaper  readers,  they  are  pleased  with 
anything,  provided  it  is  bloody  enough.  But  the  mind 
of  sensibility  requires  something  more.  Firtt,  then,  let 


182  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

us  speak  of  the  kind  of  person  who  is  adapted  to  the 
purpose  of  the  murderer ;  secondly,  of  the  place  where ; 
thirdly,  of  the  time  when,  and  other  little  circumstances. 

As  to  the  person,  I  suppose  it  is  evident  that  he  ought 
to  be  a  good  man;  because,  if  he  were  not,  he  might 
himself,  by  possibility,  be  contemplating  murder  at  the 
very  time ;  and  such  "  diamond-cut-diamond "  tussles, 
though  pleasant  enough  where  nothing  better  is  stirring, 
are  really  not  what  a  critic  can  allow  himself  to  call 
murders.  I  could  mention  some  people  (I  name  no 
names)  who  have  been  murdered  by  other  people  in  a 
dark  lane ;  and  so  far  all  seemed  correct  enough ;  but, 
on  looking  further  into  the  matter,  the  public  have  be- 
come aware  that  the  murdered  party  was  himself,  at  the 
moment,  planning  to  rob  his  murderer,  at  the  least,  and 
possibly  to  murder  him,  if  he  had  been  strong  enough. 
Whenever  that  is  the  case,  or  may  be  thought  to  be  the 
case,  farewell  to  all  the  genuine  effects  of  the  art.  For 
the  final  purpose  of  murder,  considered  as  a  fine  art,  is 
precisely  the  same  as  that  of  tragedy,  in  Aristotle's 
account  of  it,  namely,  "to  cleanse  the  heart  by  means 
of  pity  and  terror."  Now,  terror  there  may  be,  but  how 
can  there  be  any  pity  for  one  tiger  destroyed  by  another 
tiger? 

It  is  also  evident  that  the  person  selected  ought  not  to 
be  a  public  character.  For  instance,  no  judicious  artist 
would  have  attempted  to  murder  Abraham  Newland. 
For  the  case  was  this :  everybody  read  so  much  about 
Abraham  Newland,  and  so  few  people  ever  saw  him,  that 
there  was  a  fixed  belief  that  he  was  an  abstract  idea. 
And  I  remember  that  once,  when  I  happened  to  mention 


MURDER   AS   A    FINE   ART.  183 

that  1  had  dined  at  a  coffee-house  in  company  with 
Abraham  Newland,  everybody  looked  scornfully  at  me, 
as  though  I  had  pretended  to  have  played  at  billiards 
with  Prester  John,  or  to  have  had  an  affair  of  honor  with 
the  Pope.  And,  by  the  way,  the  Pope  would  be  a  very 
improper  person  to  murder:  for  he  has  such  a  virtual 
ubiquity  as  the  father  of  Christendom,  and,  like  the 
cuckoo,  is  so  often  heard  but  never  seen,  that  I  suspect 
most  people  regard  him  also  as  an  abstract  idea.  Where, 
indeed,  a  public  character  is  in  the  habit  of  giving  din- 
ners, "with  every  delicacy  of  the  season,"  the  case  is 
very  different:  every  person  is  satisfied  that  he  is  no 
abstract  idea;  and,  therefore,  there  can  be  no  impropriety 
in  murdering  him ;  only  that  his  murder  will  fall  into  the 
class  of  assassinations,  which  I  have  not  yet  treated. 

Thirdly.  The  subject  chosen  ought  to  be  La  good 
health ;  for  it  is  absolutely  barbarous  to  murder  a  sick 
person,  who  is  usually  quite  unable  to  bear  it.  On  this 
principle,  no  cockney  ought  to  be  chosen  who  is  above 
twenty -five,  for  after  that  age  he  is  sure  to  be  dyspeptic. 
Or  at  least,  if  a  man  will  hunt  in  that  warren,  he  ought 
to  murder  a  couple  at  one  time ;  if  the  cockneys  chosen 
should  be  tailors,  he  will  of  course  think  it  his  duty,  on 
the  old-established  equation,  to  murder  eighteen.  And, 
here,  in  this  attention  to  the  comfort  of  sick  people,  you 
will  observe  the  usual  effect  of  a  fine  art  to  soften  and 
refine  the  feelings.  The  world  in  general,  gentlemen, 
are  very  bloody-minded ;  and  all  they  want  in  a  murder 
is  a  copious' effusion  of  blood;  gaudy  display  in  this 
point  is  enough  for  them.  But  the  enlightened  con- 
noisseur is  more  refined  in  his  taste ;  aud  from  our  art, 


184  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

as  from  all  the  other  liberal  arts  when  thoroughly  culti- 
vated, the  result  is,  to  improve  and  to  humanize  the 
heart;  so  true  is  it,  that 

"  Ingenuas  didicisse  fideliter  artes, 
Emollit  mores,  nee  sinit  esse  feros." 

A  philosophic  friend,  well  known  for  his  philanthropy 
and  general  benignity,  suggests  that  the  subject  chosen 
ought  also  to  have  a  family  of  young  children  wholly  de- 
pendent on  his  exertions,  by  way  of  deepening  the  pathos. 
And,  undoubtedly,  this  is  a  judicious  caution.  Yet  I 
would  not  insist  too  keenly  on  this  condition.  Severe 
good  taste  unquestionably  demands  it ;  but  still,  where 
the  man  was  otherwise  unobjectionable  in  point  of  morals 
and  health,  I  would  not  look  with  too  curious  a  jealousy 
to  a  restriction  which  might  have  the  effect  of  narrowing 
the  artist's  sphere. 

So  much  for  the  person.  As  to  the  time,  the  place, 
and  the  tools,  I  have  many  things  to  say,  which  at  pres- 
ent I  have  no  room  for.  The  good  sense  of  the  practi- 
tioner has  usually  directed  him  to  night  and  privacy. 
Yet  there  have  not  been  wanting  cases  where  this  rule 
was  departed  from  with  excellent  effect.  In  respect  to 
time,  Mrs.  Ruscombe's  case  is  a  beautiful  exception,  which 
I  have  already  noticed ;  and  in  respect  both  to  time  and 
place,  there  is  a  fine  exception  in  the  annals  of  Edinburgh 
(year  1805),  familiar  to  every  child  in  Edinburgh,  but 
which  has  unaccountably  been  defrauded  of  its  due  por- 
tion of  fame  amongst  English  amateurs.  The  case  I  mean 
is  that  of  a  porter  to  one  of  the  banks,  who  was  murdered 
whilst  carrying  a  bag  of  money,  in  broad  daylight,  on 


MURDER   AS   A   FINE   ART.  185 

turning  out  of  the  High  Street,  one  of  the  most  public 
streets  in  Europe,  and  the  murderer  is  to  this  hour  undis- 
covered. 

"  Sed  fugit  interea,  fugit  irreparabile  tempos, 
Singula  dum  capti  circumvectamur  amore." 

And  now,  gentlemen,  in  conclusion,  let  me  again  sol- 
emnly disclaim  all  pretensions  on  my  own  part  to  the 
character  of  a  professional  man.  I  never  attempted  any 
murder  in  my  life,  except  in  the  year  1801,  upon  the  body 
of  a  tom-cat;  and  that  turned  out  differently  from  my 
intention.  My  purpose,  I  own,  was  downright  murder. 
"Semper  ego  auditor  tantum?"  said  I,  "nunquamne 
reponam  ?  "  And  I  went  down  stairs  in  search  of  Tom 
at  one  o'clock  on  a  dark  night,  with  the  "  animus  "  and 
no  doubt  with  the  fiendish  looks  of  a  murderer.  But 
when  I  found  him,  he  was  in  the  act  of  plundering  the 
pantry  of  bread  aud  other  things.  Now  this  gave  a  new 
turn  to  the  affair ;  for  the  time  being  one  of  general  scar- 
city, when  even  Christians  were  reduced  to  the  use  of 
potato-bread,  rice-bread,  and  all  sorts  of  things,  it  was 
downright  treason  in  a  tom-cat  to  be  wasting  good 
wheaten-bread  in  the  way  he  was  doing.  It  instantly 
became  a  patriotic  duty  to  put  him  to  death ;  and  as  I 
raised  aloft  and  shook  the  glittering  steel,  I  fancied  my- 
self rising  like  Brutus,  effulgent  from  a  crowd  of  patriots, 
and,  as  I  stabbed  him,  I 

"  Called  aloud  on  Tolly's  name, 
And  bade  the  father  of  his  conntry  hail !  " 

Since  then,  what  wandering  thoughts  I  may  have  had 
of  attempting  the  life  of  an  ancient  ewe,  of  a  superonnu- 


186 


LITTLE    CLASSICS. 


ated  hen,  and  such  "  small  deer,"  are  locked  up  in  the 
secrets  of  my  own  breast ;  but  for  the  higher  departments 
of  the  art,  I  confess  myself  to  be  utterly  unfit.  My  am- 
bition does  not  rise  so  high.  No,  gentlemen,  in  the 
words  of  Horace,  — 

"  Fungar  vice  cotis,  acutum 
Beddere  quse  ferrum  valet,  exsors  ipsa  secandi." 


THE   CAPTAIN'S   STORY. 

BY  REBECCA  HARDING  DAVIS. 

HAVE  been  asked  to  tell  what  I  know  of  the 
case  of  Joseph  C.  Wylie,  whose  mysterious  dis- 
appearance caused  so  much  excitement  in  Cin- 
cinnati when  it  occurred.  That  was  in  '58,  however, 
before  the  war  ;  and  I  had  supposed  all  trace  of  the  affair 
had  been  swept  from  the  public  mind  by  the  events 
which  followed.  Indeed,  I  see  no  reason  for  reviving 
it  now,  except  that  it  bears  more  fully  than  any  evidence 
I  have  ever  heard  upon  the  curious  matter  called  spirit- 
ualism, and  I  have  thought  (though  I  am  only  a  plain 
man,  not  used  to  dealing  in  such  whimseys)  it  offers  a 
key  to  unlock  the  riddle. 

Wylie  was  a  river-hand ;  ran  the  Ohio  and  Lower 
Mississippi  as  clerk  and  captain  on  several  stern-wheelers, 
so  came  to  be  known  pretty  generally  along  shore.  He 
was  with  me  as  second  clerk  when  the  thing  happened. 
I  was  running  the  Jacob  Strader,  one  of  the  largest 
steamboats  on  the  Mississippi.  I  took  little  account  of 
the  fellow ;  he  was  a  small,  red-headed,  weak-eyed  man, 
shambling  lazily  about,  whose  legs  and  arms  seemed 


188  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

scarcely  to  have  gristle  enough  in  them  to  hold  them 
firmly  together. 

The  only  noteworthy  trait  about  him  was  that  he  never 
touched  liquor  or  a  card,  but  found  his  amusement,  in- 
stead, in  sitting  with  some  of  the  deck  hands  below,  tell- 
ing long  pointless  yarns.  I  had  to  stop  it  at  last.  That 
runs  contrary  to  my  notions  of  discipline. 

It  was  in  April  that  he  disappeared,  like  a  flea,  under 
my  very  eyes.  The  Strader  lay  at  the  wharf,  at  Cincin- 
nati ;  it  was  Sunday,  about  noon ;  she  was  to  get  up 
steam  at  seven  o'clock  next  morning.  I  walked  up  the 
levee,  and  just  off  the  cobble-stones  met  Wylie.  He  had 
a  drum  of  figs  in  his  hand  which  he  had  just  bought  from 
some  pedler  on  the  David  Swan,  and  was  going  to  take 
home  to  his  little  Joe,  in  Cairo,  he  said,  as  he  walked 
alongside  of  me. 

I  met  John  Fordyce,  and  stopped  to  get  a  light  of 
him ;  Wylie  went  into  a  shanty  fitted  up  as  a  shop  for  the 
sale  of  cigars,  newspapers,  and  the  like ;  he  wanted  a 
"  Despatch,"  he  said.  The  shop  was  but  a  single  room, 
opening,  front  and  back,  on  the  wide  (and  at  that  hour 
on  Sunday  morning),  empty  wharf ;  a  square,  plank-built 
affair,  made  to  hold  the  two  counters  and  a  stove  in  the 
middle.  Wylie  went  into  it,  as  I  said,  but  out  of  it  he 
was  never  seen  to  come  alive.  I  stood  talking  with 
Fordyce  for  some  minutes,  then  called  the  clerk,  and 
when  he  did  not  answer,  went  in  search  of  him,  but  found 
only  the  boy  who  tended  the  shop,  asleep  under  the  coun- 
ter. Wylie  was  not  there,  nor  on  the  boat,  nor  on  the 
wharf.  He  was  nowhere,  so  far  as  the  sharpest  eyes  of 
•  the  Cincinnati  police  could  discover. 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  189 

The  thing  staggered  me  when  I  had  time  to  take  it 
home  and  realize  that  the  man  was  actually  gone ;  spir- 
ited away  in  broad  daylight,  before  my  face.  It  was  ab- 
surd, impossible  ;  yet  it  struck  me  with  a  sort  of  horror 
that  did  not  belong  to  midnight  murder. 

They  called  it  murder  in  the  papers ;  there  was  a  great 
outcry ;  but  where  was  the  foul  play  ?  The  boy  (a  chM 
of  ten)  had  heard  or  seen  nothing ;  it  was  impossible  that 
Wylie  could  have  been  foully  dealt  with,  and  no  sound  or 
cry  reach  Fordyce  or  me,  half  a  dozen  feet  off.  It  was 
just  as  impossible  that  he  could  have  left  the  shop,  unseen 
by  us  on  the  wide,  open  levee.  That  he  could  have  gone 
voluntarily,  nobody  hinted.  The  poor  fellow  had  but 
few  ideas  beyond  his  wife  and  boy,  Joe.  His  trunk  on 
board  was  found  filled  with  cheap  summer  clothes  for 
them  both,  some  tinware,  a  japanned  tea-tray,  a  china  mug ; 
trifles  which  he  had  gathered  up  at  auctions,  and  was 
taking  to  Cairo  to  make  their  little  home  comfortable. 
He  had  made  an  engagement  to  go  out  with  the  first  clerk 
that  afternoon ;  his  clean  shirt,  collar,  and  shaving  appa- 
ratus were  all  laid  out  in  his  state-room. 

But  that  was  the  last  of  him.  It  only  remained  to 
gather  up  these  things  and  carry  them  with  the  news 
to  his  wife. 

I  shirked  that.  I  cannot  face  a  woman  in  trouble.  I 
ordered  Stein,  who  had  been  a  sort  of  crony  of  his,  to  do 
it.  Stein  was  the  steward,  and  was  leaving  the  boat. 
He  had  a  good  berth  offered  to  him  in  St.  Louis,  he  said; 
so  that  I  knew  he  had  time  to  see  Wylie's  widow,  and 
break  it  gently  to  her. 
If  widow  she  was.  If  Wylie  had  died  naturally  I 


190  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

would  have  dismissed  him  from  my  mind ;  but  the  matter 
rankled  there,  as  I  might  say,  from  its  very  doubt  and 
mystery. 

About  two  years  afterward,  therefore,  when  Warrick 
brought  a  little  boy  on  board,  as  the  boat  lay  at  Cairo, 
and  told  me  it  was  Wylie's  son,  I  found  myself  going, 
again  and  again,  to  the  part  of  the  deck  where  the  child 
was  playing,  feeling  pained  to  notice  how  coarsely  dressed 
it  was,  and  how  pinched,  even  hunger-bitten,  the  little 
honest  face. 

"  Is  it  going  so  badly  with  her  ?  "  I  asked. 

Warrick  nodded,  saying  aloud,  "  Joe  's  shaken  with  the 
whooping-cough,  Captain.  He  's  the  deuce  of  a  boy  for 
sniffing  up  all  the  ailments  that  are  going  up  and  down 
the  river." 

Joe  looked  up  and  laughed. 

"  He  had  better  shake  them  down  into  the  river  again, 
then,"  I  said.  "  Let  him  and  his  mother  come  aboard 
for  a  trip  or  two.  Nothing  like  air  off  of  water  for 
that  whoop,  the  old  women  say." 

I  sent  Warrick  to  urge  the  plan  on  Mrs.  Wylie.  I 
knew  it  was  not  the  air  that  was  needed  so  much  as  good, 
wholesome  food.  Warrick  set  apart  the  best  state-room 
for  her,  and  I  dropped  in  myself  to  see  that  it  was  all  in 
order. 

In  the  evening,  before  we  started,  Warrick  brought 
her  aboard  and  into  the  cabin  where  I  was.  I  found 
that  she  had  some  exaggerated  notions  about  one  or  two 
good  turns  I  had  done  her  husband,  and  a  trifle  which  I 
had  sent  to  her  when  he  was  lost ;  so,  after  that,  I  held 
aloof  from  her.  I  hate  philandering.  I  kept  an  eye, 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  19} 

though,  to  see  how  she  fared,  —  on  the  little  body  in  her 
rusty  black  gown,  shying  round  with  Joe  in  the  corners, 
out  of  the  way  of  the  ladies  who  went  sweeping  their 
long  dresses  up  and  down. 

I  soon  found,  however,  that  all  the  men  on  board  who 
had  known  Wylie,  from  Warrick  down,  vied  with  each 
other  in  treating  her  with  a  sort  of  patronizing  respect ; 
even  Jake,  the  black  cook,  was  continually  sending  up 
little  messes  for  her  and  Joe.  She  was  but  a  poor  mouse 
of  a  woman,  who  had  made  a  god  of  that  stupid  little 
weak-eyed  fellow,  and  of  his  boy  after  he  was  gone ;  take 
her  on  politics,  or  even  gossip,  anything  outside  of  Wylie 
and  her  child,  and  there  was  nothing  in  her.  Warrick 
told  me  that  she  had  never  been  outside  of  Cairo  before, 
and  the  near  village  of  Blandville,  where  she  had  been  a 
sempstress  before  her  marriage ;  this  journey  was  like  a 
glimpse  of  a  new  world  to  her.  I  used  to  see  her  sitting 
in  a  dark  corner  on  deck  until  late  in  the  night,  her  eyes 
strained  over  the  long  stretch  of  shore  as  we  floated  by ; 
and  I  could  understand  how  the  heavy,  wooded  hills, 
crouching  like  sullen  beasts  along  the  water's  edge,  or  the 
miles  and  miles  of  yellow  cane-brake  lying  flat  and  bar- 
ren in  the  desolate,  homesick  twilight  of  a  winter's  day, 
might  have  a  different  meaning  to  the  lonely  woman,  and 
to  us,  who  counted  them  only  as  "  a  run  "  of  so  many 
hours. 

She  was  sitting  this  way  one  evening  on  our  back  trip, 
when  the  boat  stopped  to  wood  at  a  place  called  by  the 
boatmen  Dead  Man's  Riffle.  Warrick  was  near  me, 
watching  her. 

"  She  wears  black,"  he  said,  at  last.    "  Now  for  me," 


192  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

cutting  off  a  quid  of  tobacco,  "  I  never  believed  Joe  Wyfo 
was  dead.  No,  it  was  a  bad  bit  of  work,  dead  or  alive,  — 
bad." 

"  It  is  work  I  would  give  much  to  see  cleared  up, 
before  I  die,"  I  said.  Warrick  and  I  were  walking  up 
and  down  the  hurricane-deck. 

"  Would  you  ?  "  he  said,  slowly,  chewing  and  glancing 
up  at  me,  —  "  would  you  ?  There 's  a  way.  But  no 
matter  — "  stopping  short  and  looking  ashamed. 

I  said  nothing.  I  never  urge  a  man  to  speak,  if  he 
has  ever  so  little  mind  to  hold  his  tongue  quiet.  But 
Warrick  had  some  notion  that  troubled  him.  He  walked 
nearer  at  each  turn  to  the  place  where  a  stout,  short 
young  woman  was  sitting,  dressed  in  brown  linsey. 
There  was  nothing  remarkable  about  her  face,  which  was 
heavy  and  dull,  if  we  except  a  pair  of  thick,  dead,  fishy 
gray  eyes. 

"  Do  you  see  that  girl  ?  "  he  jerked  out.  "  Many  of 
the  men  aboard  would  say  that  she  could  tell  you  any- 
thing you  want  to  know ;  the  dead  are  about  her  all  the 
time,  they  say.  I  don't  say  it,  Captain,  mind ;  I  'm  not 
such  a  fool." 

"I  should  hope  not,  Warrick,"  I  said,  gravely,  and 
began  to  talk  of  something  else.  But  somehow  the  mat- 
ter stuck  in  my  mind.  The  next  day  we  stopped  for 
freight  at  Natchez.  I  went  up  into  the  city  with  one  of 
the  passengers.  Old  Jimmy  A.  it  was,  —  anybody  on  the 
Western  waters  will  know  who  I  mean ;  for  strangers  I 
will  only  say  that  A.  was  one  of  the  most  thorough  misers 
I  ever  knew.  He  was  an  extensive  stock-broker  and 
speculator  in  Western  lands.  When  his  wife  lived  ha 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  193 

had  always  consulted  her,  and  abode  by  her  advice  in  his 
business.  I  believe  he  mourned  for  the  old  woman  sin- 
cerely, though  when  she  died  he  had  taken  the  ribbon 
away  with  which  the  women  had  bound  her  chin  and  put 
twine  instead,  to  save  a  penny. 

A.  was  my  companion,  as  I  said.  Coming  down  into 
the  old  town  a  sudden  idea  struck  me. 

"  These  lots  are  cheap,  Mr.  A.,"  I  said.  "  Buy  them 
and  put  up  good  dwellings  on  them,  and  your  fortune  is 
made.  Real  estate  is  going  up  here  daily." 

The  old  man  seized  on  the  plan  eagerly,  and  held  me 
by  the  coat  while  he  went  about  the  lots,  calculating, 
muttering,  chuckling  to  himself. 

"  It 's  a  good  notion,  very  good.  This  swamp  could 
be  drained,  —  it  would  bring  in  eleven  per  cent,  eleven 
and  a  half — and  a  half;  I  wish  I  knew  what  Ann  would 
think  of  it,  poor  Ann  !  I  've  a  great  mind  to  go  into  it ; 
I  have  indeed." 

It  was  with  difficulty  I  got  the  old  fellow  away  and  on 
board  in  tune  before  the  boat  put  off.  It  was  growing 
dusk  as  we  stepped  off  the  plank  on  deck.  A.  still  clung 
to  me,  following  me  up  and  down,  charging  me  to  say 
nothing  of  the  plan  until  he  had  well  considered  it.  A» 
we  went  up  to  the  outer  cabin  we  met  the  woman  to 
whom  Warrick  had  directed  my  notice  the  day  before. 
She  was  pacing  up  and  down  with  heavy,  masculine 
steps ;  she  stood  still  as  we  came  up ;  her  dead  gray 
eyes  fell  on  A.  and  rested  there  with  a  curious  absorbing 
look;  which,  perhaps,  I  should  not  have  seen  but  for 
Warrick's  warning. 

She  remained  quite  quiet  until  we  had  passed  and 


194  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

returned ;  then  stooping  suddenly  to  a  table  before  hei; 
wrote  on  a  scrap  of  paper,  and  handed  it  to  the  old  man, 
walking  away  after  she  had  done  so ;  every  motion  life, 
less,  mechanical,  like  a  clumsy  machine  of  wood  set  in 
action. 

A.  had  not  seen  her,  I  think,  until  she  thrust  the  pa- 
per into  his  hand ;  he  stared,  pulled  at  his  ragged  gray 
beard,  and  then  peered  at  it  through  his  spectacles. 
There  was  a  queer,  scared  little  noise  in  his  throat,  like 
the  crow  of  a  chicken. 

"Why,  Captain,  look  here!  this  is  —  is  —  "  holding 
out  the  dirty  scrap  of  paper. 

It  was  a  message  from  his  wife.  "  Do  not  touch  real 
estate,  except  to  mortgage,"  she  said.  "  The  drainage 
of  the  swamp  would  eat  up  four  years'  profits." 

("  I  thought  of  that,"  he  interrupted,  quickly.)  "  Do 
not  withdraw  your  money  from  P.  C." 

"  That  is  all,"  I  said.  "  Who  is  this  woman,  Mr. 
A.?" 

"God  knows.  But  no  human  being  alive  knew  of 
that  P.  C.  money.  Ann  did."  His  face  was  colorless 
and  his  teeth  chattered.  We  went  to  the  woman.  She 
was  apparently  stolid,  and  but  half  educated ;  I  saw  no 
sign  of  cunning,  even  shrewdness,  about  her. 

"The  message  had  been  given  to  her,"  she  said. 
"How,  she  did  not  know." 

"From  a  spirit?" 

"She  could  not  say  that.  She  supposed  so.  They 
called  her  a  writing  medium." 

Afterward  she  said,  "This  thing  would  ruin  her," 
crying  in  a  feeble,  stupid  way.  She  had  been  an  opera- 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  195 

tive  in  some  mill  in  Cincinnati,  we  were  told,  and  was 
discharged  in  consequence  of  it.  The  "  manifestations  " 
were  followed  by  attacks  of  something  resembling  paraly- 
sis, which  would  soon  leave  her  helpless.  I  left  the  old 
man  talking  to  her. 

Warrick  came  to  me  that  evening.  He  had  heard  of 
the  affair.  "  Captain,"  he  said,  "  I  'm  going  to  try  if  no 
tidings  can  be  had  from  Joe  Wylie.  Have  I  your  per- 
mission ? "  I  nodded,  shortly.  Warrick's  broad  face  was 
pale  and  anxious.  I  sat  for  a  while  looking  at  the  closed 
door  of  the  little  office  into  which  they  had  gone.  Then 
I  got  up  and  followed  them.  The  woman  (Lusk  was 
her  name)  was  there,  Warrick,  and  the  wife  of  the  car- 
penter, —  a  shrewd,  sensible  woman,  —  who  had  been  a 
friend  of  Wylie's,  as  most  women  were. 

She  and  the  girl  sat  facing  each  other  at  a  table  on 
which  flared  a  dirty  oil  lamp.  Warrick  leaned  on  the 
back  of  a  chair  with  both  hands,  watching  the  girl's 
face. 

"  She  knows  what  she  's  got  to  do,  Captain,"  vigor- 
ously chewing  and  spitting,  but  not  lifting  his  eyes.  "  I 
told  her  to  consult  her  familiar  spirit,  or  whatever  it  is. 
Let 's  have  him  up !  Let 's  know  what 's  become  of  Joe, 
good  or  bad." 

I  had  seen  Warrick  cool  and  grave  when  a  burning 
boat  was  drifting  with  all  aboard  right  into  the  rapids  ; 
but  now  he  was  a  coward  in  every  bone  of  his  body ; 
his  very  voice  grew  piping  and  boisterous  as  the  woman 
turned  her  square,  heavy  face  toward  him,  and  the  gray 
eyes,  which  they  said  saw  the  dead,  fell  on  his. 

For  the  girl,  I  observed  that  she  had  the  appearance 


196  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

of  extreme  nervous  dejection  ;  her  breath  was  uncertain 
and  feeble  ;  her  lips  blue.  I  touched  her  and  found  that 
the  blood  had  almost  ceased  to  circulate.  Her  temples 
were  hot ;  hands  icy  cold ;  the  pupils  of  the  eyes  contract- 
ed. The  look  was  fastened  into  Warrick.  I  can  de- 
scribe it  in  no  other  way.  I  shook  her,  but  could  not 
loosen  the  hold  of  it.  It  was  as  if  she  drew  the  life  out 
of  his  burly  big  body  with  her  dull  eyes. 

"  Bring  up  the  spirit  of  Wylie,  my  woman,"  he  said, 
with  a  loud,  uneasy  laugh  that  suddenly  died  into  pro- 
found silence. 

She  shook  her  head ;  raised  her  forefinger  slowly, 
pointing  into  the  shadow  behind  him. 

"  What  do  you  see  ?  " 

"  I  see  a  ship  —  three-masted  —  a  bark."  ( Warrick 
started,  nodding  his  head  with  a  muttered  oath.)  "  The 
sea  is  frozen ;  the  ship  is  wedged  between  masses  of  ice ; 
the  sky  is  like  a  bronze  plane  above ;  there  is  neither 
sun  nor  wind." 

"  On  a  whaler ! "  burst  in  Warrick.  "  I  always  knew 
it !  I  was  in  just  such  a  scrape,  off —  Go  on,  go  on." 

"  There  are  two  men  on  deck.  One  is  heavily  built, 
gray-headed ;  the  other  is  spare,  short,  with  red  hair. 
There  is  a  blood-mark  on  his  chin." 

"  Wylie !    Alive  ! " 

"  Alive.    His  clothes  are  gray  —  " 

"  He  wore  gray  the  day  he  left,"  said  Warrick.  "  But, 
come  to  think  of  it  now,  he  would  n't  —  " 

"  I  was  wrong.     He  wears  a  sailor's  dress." 

She  got  up  hastily,  putting  her  hand  to  her  fore- 
head. Her  face  was  covered  with  a  cold  sweat.  "  Noth- 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  197 

ing  —  nothing !  I  am  sick.  Stop  —  no  more,"  she 
gasped. 

Mrs.  Pallet,  the  carpenter's  wife,  put  her  arm  about 
her.  "  I  '11  take  her  to  her  room,  Captain  ?  "  looking  at 
me.  "  There 's  no  cheating  in  her,  at  any  rate,"  as  she 
led  her  out.  "  It 's  my  belief  it 's  the  Devil's  work." 

Warrick  straightened  himself  and  drew  a  long  breath. 
"  Do  you  think  it  is  the  Devil's  work,  sir  ?  " 

"  God  knows." 

"  It  is  the  truth,  whether  or  no.  Wylie  always  had  a 
hankering  for  a  sea  life.  He  used  to  listen  to  my  old 
whaling  yarns  twenty  times  over.  And  I  've  heard  lately, 
Captain,  that  poor  Joe  was  deep  in  debt  when  he  disap- 
peared. Some  old  matters,  before  he  came  aboard  the 
Strader.  He  had  a  reason  for  going.  But  Ellen  thinks 
him  dead,  —  thinks  him  dead,"  stroking  his  whiskers. 
"  Would  you  tell  her  of  this  now,  eh,  Captain  P  "  looking 
up. 

"  Yes,  I  would,"  after  a  pause.  "  It  can  do  no  harm. 
But  gently,  Warrick,  gently." 

It  did  do  harm,  however  gently  it  was  told.  The 
next  day  Wylie's  wife  came  to  me  where  I  stood  alone, 
near  the  texas.  Her  nose  was  red  from  crying,  and  her 
eyes  angry,  which  made  the  rest  of  her  face  more  hunger- 
nipped  and  pale.  She  touched  my  sleeve,  and  then  drew 
off,  holding  her  little  boy  by  the  hand. 

"  Captain  Roberts,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  steady  voice, 
"  there  is  a  woman  on  the  boat  who  pretends  to  have  seen 
my  husband  alive.  If  he  is  alive,  he  has  deserted  me. 
He  is  dead." 

"  Be  calm,  madam." 


198  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  He  is  dead.  You  shall  not  think  ill  of  Joe."  She 
was  silent  a  moment,  holding  her  throat  with  one  hand. 
"  If  he  is  alive,  he  has  deserted  me,  and  —  I  '11  tell  you, 
Captain  Roberts,  but  I  never  meant  to  tell  any  living 
man.  When  you  brought  me  and  Joe  on  the  boat, 
I  had  n't  touched  meat  for  four  months.  It  took  all  I 
could  make  to  keep  life  in  the  boy,  and  barely  that.  I 
went  out  scrubbing  when  sewing  failed  me.  I  scrubbed 
and  whitewashed.  I  did  n't  beg.  Do  you  think  Joe 
would  have  left  me  to  that  ?  and  him  alive  P  He  's  dead. 
There  's  some  days  I  've  went  through  —  if  Joe  had  been 
on  the  face  of  the  earth  he  'd  have  come  to  me  them  days. 
He  's  dead ;  he  's  waiting,  somewheres  —  " 

She  held  little  Joe  tighter  by  the  hand,  looking  beyond 
me  —  God  knows  where  —  into  the  place  where  old  Joe 
waited  for  her,  I  suppose ;  the  somewheres  where  the 
poor  starved  soul  hoped  to  find  the  comfort  and  love 
of  her  married  life  again.  I  hesitated.  "Would  you 
like  to  see  this  woman?  I  will  not  say  that  I  credit 
her  assertions,  but  there  is  a  curious  —  " 

She  drew  herself  up,  growing  pale.  "  I,  sir  ?  No ;  I 
only  wished  that  you  should  do  my  husband  justice.  For 
the  woman  —  no  matter.  I  will  not  detain  you,  Captain 
Roberts."  And  so,  scarcely  waiting  for  me  to  speak  to 
the  boy,  she  drew  him  away  with  her. 

"  That  cut  Ellen  hard,"  Warrick  said,  —  "  hard.  These 
women  would  rather  a  man  should  die  any  day  than  cease 
to  care  for  them.  But  it 's  true.  Joe  Wylie  went  on  a 
whaler,  sir." 

The  girl  Lusk  went  ashore  at  New  Albany,  and  I  saw 
her  no  more.  She  became  afterward  a  noted  medium,  I 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  199 

believe  ;  and  old  A.,  by  the  way,  used  to  consult  her  in 
all  of  his  undertakings,  or  rather  his  wife,  through 
her. 

The  matter  puzzled  me.  I  did  not  believe  the  spirit* 
of  the  dead  had  anything  to  do  with  it ;  though  the  wo- 
man, before  she  went  off  the  boat,  brought  me  a  message 
from  one  who  has  been  gone  from  me  this  many  a  year. 
I  will  say  no  more  of  this.  Since  she  died  I  have  not 
named  her  name.  I  did  not  believe  the  words  came  from 
her.  I  did  not  believe  the  girl  Lusk  was  an  impostor. 
I  thought,  as  every  impartial,  cool  observer  must,  that 
there  was  a  something  —  not  charlatanism  —  in  this  mat- 
ter, and  I  think,  in  the  end,  I  got  the  key  to  it ;  but  of 
that  you  must  judge. 

The  matter  puzzled  and  troubled  me  so  much  that  I 
determined  to  try  an  experiment,  which,  perhaps,  was 
cruel.  I  took  Ellen  to  a  medium,  without  warning  her 
of  my  intention.  Warrick  told  me  of  her,  —  "  She  has 
never  showed  herself  in  public."  He  said,  "  She  takes  no 
pay.  That  makes  me  trust  her.  She  's  miserably  poor, 
too ;  a  huckster  in  the  Cincinnati  market." 

It  was  early  dawn  when  I  took  Ellen  to  her.  She  oc- 
cupied a  corner  of  the  market  as  a  fruit  and  vegetable 
stall,  and  as  we  came  near  was  hanging  nets  of  apples 
and  oranges  in  front  of  it,  I  remember.  A  skinny,  sour- 
visaged,  middle-aged  woman,  dressed  in  a  sluttish  gown 
and  calico  sun-bonnet.  I  noticed  the  same  peculiarity  in 
the  eye  as  in  the  girl  Lusk:  they  were  opaque,  gray, 
dead.  The  market-house  was  nearly  empty;  a  few 
butchers  were  arranging  their  meat  at  some  distance  in- 
side, or  swallowing  their  coffee  at  the  eatkg-stalls  by  the 


200  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

light  of  a  few  candles.  This  woman's  stall  was  out  on 
the  solitary  street,  however,  and  the  pleasant  morning 
light  shone  about  it. 

I  made  a  pretence  of  buying  some  fruit.  "This  is 
the  business  for  which  I  brought  you  ashore,"  I  said  to 
Ellen. 

It  was  impossible  that  the  woman  could  have  heard 
me,  yet  she  turned  sharply,  eying  Ellen  as  she  came 
forward. 

"  It  was  for  no  oranges  you  come.  Why  did  n't  ye 
say  what  you  come  for  P  If  there  's  any  dead  belonging 
to  ye,  I  '11  bring  ye  word  from  them.  There 's  spirits  all 
about  me;  there's  spirits  at  yer  back,  there's  spirits 
fillin*  the  street.  What  '11  you  have,  my  young  man  P  " 
to  a  boy  who  stopped.  "  Eight  and  ten  cents  them  is." 

Ellen  drew  back.    "  Let  us  go,  let  us  go,"  she  said. 

At  that  moment  a  series  of  soft  double-knocks,  as  if 
made  by  two  knuckles  of  a  gloved  hand,  sounded  all 
about  us, — under  the  pavement,  on  the  roof,  ou  the 
stall. 

"  There 's  yer  change.  —  I  've  a  message  for  you"  sud- 
denly facing  Ellen;  "there's  a  spirit  here  to  speak  to 
you." 

"  He  is  dead,  then  P  "  catching  both  hands  together  as 
if  to  support  herself. 

The  woman  took  down  a  greasy  card,  on  which  the 
alphabet  was  printed,  from  a  nail  where  it  hung,  and  ran 
her  pencil  lightly  along  it,  as  the  raps  continued  in  swift, 
soft  succession.  She  spelled  out  this  message :  — 

"I  think  of  you  here.  Of  you  and  Joe.  You  will 
eome  to  me." 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  201 

"  Where  —  how  was  it  done  ?  "  I  cried. 

The  woman  glanced  at  Ellen,  who  leaned  against  the 
edge  of  the  block. 

"  I  was  murdered ;  drugged  and  murdered,"  was  the 
answer. 

"  He  is  dead.  There  is  no  chance  any  more."  That 
was  all  she  said,  with  a  strange  inconsistency,  forgetting 
her  anger  of  the  other  day.  "There  is  no  chance,  no 
chance,"  I  heard  her  mutter,  as  we  went  back  to  the 
boat;  "he's  gone  now." 

The  blow  was  as  hard  as  if  it  had  struck  her  for  the 
first  time.  I  told  Warrick  the  story  without  comment. 

"It  goes  dead  against  the  other,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  And  yet  where  did  either  woman  get  their  knowledge 
of  the  business  we  wanted  cleared.  The  blood-mark  on 
the  chin,  the  possibility  that  the  dead  man  had  been 
drugged  and  murdered  ?  There 's  truth  in  it,  in  all  the 
muddle." 

I  said  nothing.  But  the  matter  had  taken  a  hold  on 
me  which  I  could  not  shake  off.  I  determined  to  look 
through  the  absurdity  and  mystery  of  this  so-called  spirit- 
ualism until  I  had  discovered  the  truth  which  Warrick 
believed  ky  in  it.  I  could  not  divest  myself,  either,  of 
an  unaccountable  impression  that  at  last  we  were  upon 
the  track  of  the  missing  man. 

I  induced  Mrs.  Wylie  to  remain  on  the  boat  during  its 
next  run,  for  the  boy's  sake,  who  grew  stronger  and  more 
rugged  every  day.  There  was  the  making  of  a  man  in 
the  little  fellow;  he  had  a  hearty,  straightforward  look 
in  his  puny  face,  that  made  a  friend  of  everybody.  For 
the  woman,  from  the  day  when  the  message  came  to  her 


202  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

from  her  husband,  dead,  she  gave  way  in  mind  or  body 
as  if  some  sinew  had  been  snapped  which  had  held  her 
up.  I  fancied  that  unconsciously  she  had  been  keeping 
some  vague  hope  alive  which  was  gone  now,  forever. 
She  crept  out  now  to  the  hurricane-deck,  and  sat  all 
day;  where  her  look  settled,  or  her  hands  fell  on  her 
lap,  there  they  rested,  immovable.  As  I  knew  her  better, 
I  discovered  why  the  men  held  her  in  such  a  pitying 
aspect.  She  was  a  simple-hearted,  credulous  creature, 
such  as  everybody  feels  bound  and  anxious  to  take  care 
of  when  they  are  left  drifting  about  the  world. 

So  we  made  our  way  up  to  the  headwaters  of  the  Ohio. 
It  was  late  in  October,  I  remember,  —  warm,  yellow  sun- 
shine by  day,  and  cold  nights.  The  fields  nipped  brown 
and  red  in  the  early  frosts.  I  used  to  think  if  anything 
could  take  the  poor  woman's  thoughts  off  the  dead,  the 
cheerful  sights  and  sounds  along  shore  ought  to  do  it. 
The  water  was  unusually  clear,  and  curdled  and  bubbled 
back  from  the  edge  of  the  boat  all  day,  filled  with  a 
frothed,  green  light ;  the  hills  on  both  sides  kept  rising 
back  and  back  to  the  sky  beyond,  mottled  with  purple 
and  crimson  and  blackish  greens ;  we  passed  thousands 
of  little  islands  shying  out  of  the  current,  which  were 
mere  beds  of  feathery  moss  and  golden-rod.  Then  there 
were  pretty,  new  little  villages,  and  the  husv  larger 
towns,  and  farms,  at  long  intervals;  and  when  these 
were  passed  we  floated  into  the  deep  solitude  again. 
I  noticed  it  the  more  because  we  were  out  of  our  usual 
run ;  the  Strader  plied  then  between  Louisville  and  New 
Orleans.  But  the  woman  saw  nothing  of  it,  I  think. 

When  we  reached  Pittsburg,  and  had  discharged  cargo, 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  208 

I  determined,  with  Warrick,  to  make  a  final  test  of  the 
matter.  F.  was  then  in  the  city,  just  back  from  Eng- 
land, the  most  successful  medium,  next  to  Home,  who 
ever  left  the  States.  He  was  willing,  "  for  a  considera- 
tion," to  hold  a  private  seance  and  bring  us  in  contact 
with  any  of  the  dead. 

He  was  hardly  the  person  to  whom  one  would  think 
St.  Peter  would  have  lent  his  keys  for  ever  so  short  a 
time;  an  oily,  bloated  sensualist,  with  thick  lips,  and 
thicker  eyelids  half  closed  over  a  dull,  sleepy  eye.  He 
was  dressed  like  an  Orleans  blackleg,  gaudy  with  purple 
velvet  waistcoat  and  flash  jewelry.  But  if  there  was  any 
truth  in  spiritualism,  here  was  its  interpreter.  I  engaged 
him  to  come  on  board  on  Saturday  evening ;  no  one  was 
to  be  present  but  Warrick,  Ellen,  and  myself;  the  boat 
was  empty  at  the  time,  with  the  exception  of  its  regular 
crew,  below.  There  was  but  little  persuasion  needed  to 
induce  Ellen  to  consent. 

"He  may  bring  me  another  message,"  with  a  light 
flickering  into  her  eyes.  "  Joe  will  be  glad  to  find  the 
way."  It  is  people  like  Ellen  who  are  always  sure  con- 
verts of  spiritualism ;  it  seems  so  natural  to  them  that 
their  dead  should  come  back,  that  they  are  blind  to  any 
absurd  discrepancies  in  the  manner.  On  Saturday  morn- 
ing, on  the  wharf,  I  met  Stein,  who  had  left  the  boat 
some  two  years  before,  and  remembering  his  old  liking 
for  Joe,  told  him  what  we  were  about  to  do.  Stein  was 
a  hard-headed,  shrewd  little  Yankee;  I  was  surprised, 
therefore,  to  see  how  discomposed  and  startled  he  ap- 
peared at  the  first  mention  of  the  affair ;  he  denounced 
F.  as  a  humbug  with  a  great  deal  of  heat,  and  tried  to 


204  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

persuade  and  chaff  me  out  of  it ;  but  finding  he  could 
not,  asked  leave  to  come  himself  to  the  seance. 

"  You  're  bitten,  Captain,"  he  said.  "  It  will  be  easy 
to  persuade  you  that  you  see  ghosts  yourself.  You  had 
better  let  me  bring  a  little  daylight  with  me." 

I  told  Warrick  of  my  meeting  with  Stein,  and  he,  hav- 
ing nothing  else  to  do,  sauntered  off  in  the  afternoon  to 
bring  him  down.  I  told  Ellen  also,  who,  to  my  surprise, 
reddened  and  grew  pale,  when  I  named  him. 

"  He  is  a  man  whom  I  have  no  reason  to  like,"  she 
said.  "  But  it  does  not  matter." 

In  the  evening  F.  came  on  board,  stopping  in  the 
outer  cabin,  where  we  were  soon  joined  by  Stein.  We 
waited  an  hour  for  Warrick,  who  did  not  return,  and 
then  entered  the  saloon  where  Ellen  was  seated.  I  no- 
ticed that  Stein  drew  back,  muttering,  "  You  did  not  tell 
me  that  woman  was  here,"  and  that  no  greeting  passed 
between  them. 

The  seance  proceeded  according  to  the  usual  formula. 
We  sat  around  a  bare  table,  on  which  were  placed  by 
Stein  and  myself  the  names  of  those  whom  we  wished  to 
appear  written  on  scraps  of  paper  rolled  up  in  pellets, 
and  kid  in  a  small  heap.  Ellen  wrote  none.  "  He  will 
come,"  she  said,  simply. 

But  few  raps  were  heard.  F.  delivered  the  messages 
by  writing,  his  fat,  lumpy  hand  moving  spasmodically 
over  the  sheets  of  paper.  From  several  of  the  names 
written  on  the  pellets  came  communications,  vague  and 
meaningless,  any  one  of  which  might  have  been  exchanged 
for  the  other  without  loss  of  force. 

F.  glanced  shrewdly  around  from  time  to  time,  fixing 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  205 

his  strange,  introverted  gaze  oftenest  on  Ellen  and  little 
Joe,  who  had  crept  in  and  stood  looking  him  boldly  in 
the  face.  He  tnrned  to  me. 

"  One  whom  you  desire  to  appear  has  not  yet  come  ? 
So  far  the  seance  has  failed  —  for  you  ?  "  he  said. 

I  nodded.  His  face  heightened  in  color  as  if  the  blood 
slowly  rose  to  his  head  ;  the  veins  swelled  ;  drops  of  sweat 
oozed  out  on  his  neck  and  forehead ;  he  peered  sharply 
about  the  room,  as  if  out  of  the  dark  shadows  he  expected 
visible  spirits  to  rise. 

"  He  is  coming !  "  said  Ellen,  with  a  gasp.  Stein  be- 
came ghastly  pale  at  the  words,  and  looked,  terrified, 
over  his  shoulder,  recovering  himself  with  a  feeble 
laugh. 

The  table  where  we  sat  was  under  the  chandelier,  two 
of  the  lamps  of  which  barely  sufficed  to  light  that  end  of 
the  cabin.  The  remainder  stretched,  long  and  narrow 
and  black,  to  the  far  upper  deck.  The  medium,  looking 
at  Stein  as  if  he  saw  through  him  into  this  outer  dark- 
ness, sat  motionless.  There  was  a  long  silence.  Then 
he  raised  his  hand,  made  a  slow  beckoning  movement 
into  the  shadow.  Ellen  and  Stein  turned  their  pale  faces, 
breathlessly. 

"  They  are  coming !  They  are  here  ! "  he  said. 
"  They  tell  me  all  you  would  know.  The  man  you  seek 
is  not  dead.  He  was  cheated,  deceived,  carried  off  to 
Caraccas  that  another  man  might  marry  his  wife." 

As  his  voice  rose,  Stein  rose  with  it,  stood  facing  him 
with  a  look  of  terror  and  ferocity,  like  a  wild  animal 
whose  lair  has  suddenly  been  uncovered.  Sudden  light 
flashed  on  me.  I  sprang  up ;  Ellen  cowered  with  a  cry, 


206  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

but  above  all  sounded  F.'s  sharp,  monotonous  sen- 
tences. 

"  He  is  not  dead ;  he  has  returned !  He  is  —  here  !  " 
as  Stein,  with  an  oath,  pointed  into  the  shadow  where 
Warrick  appeared,  and  leaped  back  as  though  the  ghost 
of  his  victim  confronted  him. 

It  was  no  ghost.  A  little,  red-headed,  weak-eyed  fel- 
low had  his  arms  about  Ellen's  neck,  holding  her  to  his 
breast  as  if  he  had  the  strength  of  a  lion.  Warrick,  the 
medium,  and  I  exclaimed  and  swore,  choking  for  words  ; 
but  he  was  silent.  He  only  held  her  as  close  as  if  he  had 
indeed  come  back  from  the  grave  to  find  her,  putting 
back  her  head,  now  and  then,  and  looking  at  her  with  & 
wonderful  love  in  his  puny,  insignificant  face. 

"  Ellen  !  Ellen !  "  he  said  at  last ;  "  they  told  me  you 
were  dead,  —  you  and  the  boy.  This  my  Joe! — little 
Joe  ?  "  picking  up  the  boy,  handling  his  legs  and  arms 
and  looking  into  his  face,  his  own  contorted  and  wet  with 
tears.  We  men  moved  off  down  into  the  lower  cabin, 
leaving  them  alone ;  but  I  saw  Joe  a  long  time  after, 
still  sitting  there  with  his  wife  clinging  to  him,  and  the 
boy  on  his  knees,  and  I  could  not  help  it,  I  went  in  and 
held  out  my  hand.  "  I  congratulate  you,  old  fellow ! 
God  has  been  good  to  you !  " 

But  he  only  looked  up  with  a  bewildered  smile.  "  Yes, 
God  has  been  good.  This  is  Ellen,  Captain.  And  my 
little  son.  My  little  son." 

Wylie's  story  is  soon  told.  Stein  had  persuaded  him 
to  give  his  creditors  the  slip  and  make  for  California, 
promising  to  join  him  shortly,  and  that  they  would  speed- 
ily make  their  fortunes.  Wylie  was  a  man  easily  led, 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  207 

and  consented.  He  was  concealed  under  a  trap-door  in 
the  cigar-shop,  and  escaped  while  Fordyce  and  I  sought 
the  police. 

Stein  had  intercepted  his  letters  to  his  wife  until  such 
time  as  he  could  send  him  word  of  her  death.  In  his 
own  plans  upon  her  he  was  disappointed. 

I  am  glad  to  say  that  Joe  brought  back  enough  yellow 
dust  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door  for  many  a  day.  He 
and  his  wife  are  living  somewhere  in  Indiana.  Joe,  their 
son,  was  a  drummer-boy  in  the  Thirty-sixth  Ohio,  under 
Captain  Saunders,  and  I  '11  venture  to  say  no  braver 
heart  kept  time  to  his  "  Rat-tat-too "  than  that  which 
beat  under  his  own  little  jacket. 

I  consented  to  write  down  these  facts,  as  I  said,  be- 
cause of  their  bearing  upon  the  matter  of  spiritualism. 
In  this  case,  as  in  every  other  of  which  I  have  become 
cognizant,  the  mediums  have  only  put  into  shape  the 
thoughts  of  those  who  question  them.  To  admit  that  cer- 
tain persons  can  at  will  become  possessed  of  the  secret 
movements  in  the  mind  of  another,  will  solve  the  whole 
mystery.  In  this  case  of  Wylie,  the  mediums,  Lusk,  the 
woman  at  Cincinnati,  and  finally  F.,  simply  reproduced  the 
surmises  or  knowledge  of  Warrick,  Ellen,  and  Stein.  It 
is  not  agreeable  to  think  that  an  animal  so  gross  as  F. 
should  have  power  to  decipher  our  inmost  thoughts. 
Better  that,  however,  than  to  believe  that  those  we  have 
lost  should  hold  out  their  hands  to  us  through  such  a 
messenger. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  U6RAHY  FACILITY 


A    000046723    3 


